How Not To
by make.tracks.cowboy11
Summary: Meeting in an unusual place in life, a broken Jim and Pam try their best to put the pieces of their lives back together while not falling apart and back down the hole that they're trying to help one another out of. Based on the song "How Not To" by Dan Shay, because do I *ever* write something that *isn't* based on a song? **Cross Posted over at MTT!
1. Chapter 1

**_Jim_**

"Hi, my name is Pam. It's been...twenty-four hours since my last drink. Well, almost. Technically I still have two more to go before it's nine o'clock, so we'll see what happens."

It was the first time since I'd started going to these meetings that I actually looked up from my lap. Someone in this circle was saying something that didn't drip with depression, didn't shed a spotlight on failures and put everyone else crawling into their own transgressions.

Someone was telling a goddamn joke.

In the middle of an AA meeting.

I couldn't help it. I chuckled.

The sound was strange, though; laughter was so foreign to my vocal chords as of late that it felt awkward as it crawled up my throat.

I followed the line of wary eyes around the circle. Some people looked angry, some genuinely offended that someone could actually crack a joke in this _circle of seriousness_. One woman was clutching her heart, which made my eyebrows skyrocket; she wasn't serious, was she? Some kicked their shoes across the hardwood of the gym floor uncomfortably.

But when I finally found her, sitting to my two-o'clock across the circle, it was obvious that she was the culprit.

She looked mildly offended, even angrily put off that only one person had laughed. Her eyebrows pinched towards the middle, one of them slightly raised as she crossed her arms, a gesture that said she was done talking for the night, that she was closing herself off from the _circle of trust_, and the _judgement free zone_ that was really anything but.

Normally, I spent my time here tuning out the sob stories and the tales of progress. I used my time spent in this gym to get lost in memories, to let them absorb me in a different setting than my living room couch (since I lived with my sister now, and she refused to let me wallow) or the neighborhood barstool (since Joe, the bartender, was basically refusing to serve me, and I was halfway convinced that he had sent out my picture to every bar within a twenty-mile radius so that others would do the same).

But tonight, with my head still buzzing from the laughter that had broken up this stuffy circle, and my body suddenly wanting to chase that feeling like the high I wasn't getting anymore, my attention was suddenly pulled towards something that wasn't counting the slats on the gym floor.

I watched her, trying my best not to look like I was staring. But I couldn't help it.

She was so much different than the usual crowd of our sad little circle. Most people who joined appeared sad or sullen. Some were angry. There were plenty who showed up, twitched with want and withdrawal, and left before we were halfway done with our confessions. But not her.

She put on a good front, with the way that she kept her body closed, all crossed legs and arms, feigning indifference in the way that she kept picking at her fingernails. But I could tell, oh boy could I tell, that she was shaking inside.

Her eyes were the dead giveaway. And I knew all about that, what with the way that my family was still doing their best to paint on smiles and act like everything was back to normal when their eyes always, _always_ told a different story when they looked at me.

Her eyes weren't sad, though. They were cold. Devoid, almost, of any semblance of life.

It could have been from the drug. I'd seen plenty of people come through the church doors at rock bottom, so completely empty that this was their last hope, the bars on their eyes a telltale sign of whiskey prison. But I knew that look well. I had seen it in the mirror, stared it down and willed it to go away and memorized the bloodshot lines in the hazel of my eyes until I couldn't take my own pathetic looks anymore.

The mask she wore on her face wasn't this one though. She wasn't imprisoned solely by the bottle tonight. It was more than that.

Someone, or something, had done this to her, had sucked her soul straight from her lips and drained all of the color and care and joy and emotion with it, leaving behind someone who was trying so hard _not_ to care, that in reality, the _care_ was clawing at her eyelashes to get out, for someone to see it and wrap her up and show her what it was to feel again.

And here I was, ten yards away, staring into it.

I spent the last half hour of time trying to read her, to pick up any tiny tick of her body or spark in her eyes that would tell me who did this to her, would tell me why she was suddenly sitting here with her butt in one of the stupid metal chairs that we set up every week. But then, we were closing in prayer, and I where I usually took this time, the time where you were _supposed_ to close your eyes, to let the wave of my own memories drown me to the bottom of the ocean, I kept them wide open this time, and watched as she pinched her eyes shut, trying her best to look like she just wanted to get this over with, but losing the battle to the the look on her face that screamed _help me._

I never stayed for donuts and coffee. The donuts were always stale and coffee didn't quench any thirst I needed. The warmth reminded me of everything I was in this room to avoid and I never quite understood why they had beverages of any sort at all.

But here she was, with that still haunted look in her eye. The scowl in her eyebrows said _Don't fuck with me_. The way she bit her lip and tugged on the sleeve of her jean jacket said otherwise.

So I did the exact opposite of what I had been trying my best to do in the time I had been coming to this church gymnasium.

I made myself busy, filling a cup with steaming coffee that I was going to hate every drop of, and I walked up to her and started a conversation. It went against every rule I had put in place for myself when in came to AA meetings, my rules about not making any connections with anyone. I didn't want to so much as keep track of names. Following those easy rules wouldn't let anyone here _get to me._

Because if they got to me, then they'd find out. If I let them _get to me_, it would all come flooding back. And I sure as hell wasn't ever going to be ready for that.

I shoved my fidgeting free hand into my pocket, the nervous energy sure to be a dead giveaway, like she was a dog who could smell my fear.

"That was a funny joke back there," I started, feeling the words scratch up my throat, so unused to actually making sound.

She twitched in my direction, clearly not ready for the intrusion, but I saw her features soften, as if in recognition.

"Oh. Yeah, thanks. Tough crowd tonight apparently. Thanks for indulging." Her smile didn't reach her eyes by far, as if making her lips do anything but pout and frown was almost painful, but it was a start.

"Anytime," I chuckled, staring down at my own coffee, the thick brown liquid still not a substitute for the bitterness that I was constantly willing to appear in the styrofoam cup. "I'm Jim by the way."

Tugging my hand out of my pocket, I extended it in her direction.

"Pam."

She smiled in that pained way, like she really wanted to be happy but the vice inside tugged tightly in the opposite direction, doing its best to hold her down and make her miserable. Her eyes crinkled as she slipped her small hand into my palm, its coldness, the dead weight in my grip, matching everything about her that had put her in this place.

But in the same moment, there was something screaming inside of me to find out more, to peel back the paint and know what joy once looked like in her pale green eyes.

Our hands softly fell to the wayside, and I slipped mine soundlessly into my pocket, fidgeting with the ring of keys that I found there. A sudden heat rushed to my face, and my thumb dove around for _that_ keychain, the feel of its metal ridges instantly soothing my nerves as my heartbeat began to normalize.

"Ordinarily, I'd ask if you wanted to get a drink, but under the circumstances, I feel like that wouldn't be appropriate."

She pulled me out of memory lane before the engine had fully revved, and I was surprised that she had drawn an almost genuine laugh out of me for the second time that night when laughter wasn't something I generally did anymore.

"Yeah, that...you might get a nasty lecture from Susan over there," I said, hitching my thumb towards the large throng of people.

"Good to know."

She gazed, almost wistfully, towards them, the group that was eating stale donuts and putting arms around shoulders to console and congratulate and give advice. When she gazed back up at me, her smile looked drunk, like the alcohol from twenty-four hours prior was still buzzing somewhere dormant in her veins, even though I could tell from the way that her body was fidgeting and her eyes were twitching that she was sitting in desperate want.

"So...is it socially acceptable to get a burger after these things, then?"

"Burgers are good," I nodded in approval. My tongue felt tingly; all of the time spent not talking, and suddenly here I was making actual conversations.

After a minute of standing there awkwardly, I pushed out a soft laugh and cocked my head towards the door.

"C'mon. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Stepping into the cool May breeze seemed to knock her over, like fresh air was a foreign substance and she was an astronaut on a strange planet without a helmet. She closed her eyes, pausing on the sidewalk, almost like she was trying to decide whether she was in pain, or if she was just going to let her body enjoy this.

"God, I didn't think I could take the depressing any longer," she joked, reaching into her purse to pull out a box of cigarettes. "Smoke?"

She offered me one, and there was a large part of me that wanted to take it, to let the nicotine quell the dull ache in my core for _some_ form of relief.

So I did.

I fumbled with the lighter, not having actually smoked since my college days, and only then it was a brief stint before I realized that filling your lungs with rat poison wasn't actually fun. But after a few coughing sputters around my bud, I inhaled a breath of toxic relief, pushing a cloud of smoke into the otherwise clean Scranton air.

"You're not a smoker."

It was an observation, not a question. I palmed the back of my head and tried to pocket the embarrassment that was washing over me in the crimson wave of my cheeks.

"Uh...not...in a long time."

She nodded solely in affirmation, without passing judgement; she nodded as if I had told her the sky was blue and she understood.

"I don't really, either. It's a nasty habit."

But the way that her lips were wrapped so confidently around the paper, the way that smoke blew out the side of her chapped lips like she owned the oxygen in the air that she was stealing, said otherwise. It could have been that she was lying to me, but it also very well could have been a quickly learned behavior, one that she adapted to quickly to stop the want for other drugs.

She tapped the end of the cigarette, the ashes falling to the ground like dead leaves. The next drag she took was like a diver coming up for air and inhaling a fresh breath, the tight muscles in her face seeming to relax as nicotine took the driver's seat.

We stood in silence as she finished her cigarette and I putzed on mine, stomping it under my toe after I'd sucked about half the life into me. My lungs were already complaining, and I was anticipating cotton mouth of a different kind when I woke up in the morning.

"So. This burger you speak of…"

She waved her finger in the air in a gesture that said _Where is it?_ and _Are we going anytime soon?_ so I dug around in my pocket for my keys, rubbing my thumb over the ridges of the keychain again to quell the building shakes.

"You want me to drive?" I asked as we headed for the parking lot.

"Nah. I'll just follow you. Wouldn't want to make you have to double back to drop me off here again."

It made sense, and I nodded once before ducking into my own car and hanging on the breaks until I saw her headlights behind me.

We settled side by side on bar stools at the counter inside of Six East, and I gulped down the irony of it all, that we very well could have met under similar circumstances, but with poor lighting instead of bright fluorescence, with tall glasses of biting liquid that threatened to put the world on its head, instead of greasy nourishment that would absorb all of that hate.

We both ordered burgers and nursed matching Coke-A-Colas, probably both pretending that they were mixed with whiskey.

"So…" I began, chewing around my sandwich to mask how awkward my conversational skills had gotten as of late. "Was tonight your first time at group? I haven't seen you around before."

She finished chewing her bite, nodding heartily as she did.

"You caught me," she said as she swallowed. "I popped my Alcoholics Anonymous cherry tonight. And you were there to witness it! Congratulations."

I shook my head and chuckled, staring down at my slowly disappearing fries, suddenly worried that my mask of food was slowly dwindling and I would soon have nothing to hide behind.

"How long have you been going?" she asked, staring off behind the counter herself.

I slugged back some soda, taking a long swallow before answering.

"Umm...about a month, month and a half, maybe?"

Seven weeks, actually. I had the days counted down to a science by now. How many it had been since my life had fallen apart. How many days it had taken until I was drowning, my diet mainly consisting of whiskey and snotty tears. Exactly how many phone calls I ignored from my boss, from my family, until they were banging at my front door.

How long it took Larisa to finally find me passed out, face down in my own vomit. How many times she threatened to take me to rehab before I got any worse.

I could tick off exactly how many days I spent with each of three different therapists before telling them to turn in the jacket and seeking counsel from Dr. Jack Daniels instead, before Larisa hauled my ass to someone who actually worked for a little while, before talking about the feelings were too much and I just wanted to be numb again.

It was all under the pretense of how many days it took for her to move me into her place, Larisa making sure I stayed on her regimen of eating real food and not sleeping until noon and going to bed at six o'clock to shut out my own misery.

I snapped back to reality, realizing that I had gone swimming in my own head again. She was patient though, because she obviously understood.

"So did you just decide to be a mute tonight?" she started up again, cocking an eyebrow at me. "No soul dropping confessions of how hard it is to stay sober?"

I huffed out a laugh and dipped a french fry into the pool of ketchup on my plate.

"No," I admitted plainly. "No. I don't really talk when I'm in there."

It was the most transparent I had been in almost three hundred sixty five days. Not with my sister, not with my therapists. But for some reason, with this girl, who seemed almost as broken as I was, it was a little bit easier.

She hummed low in acceptance, seeming to ponder what I had said, to toss it back and forth with the tilt of her head.

"Well, after my first experience, I can see why you don't," she said finally. "It's kind of a tough crowd in there."

She chuckled. But I was getting really introspective all of a sudden, which was as invigorating as it was frightening.

"Exactly," I started, stabbing the butt of a french fry into the cool ceramic of my plate. "But like...I don't know. Those people don't know me. And I really don't..._want_ them to know me. You know?"

It was as close to the truth as I could get. They didn't know my story, and in order for them to truly understand why I came to that circle every week and sat there motionless, I would have to _tell_ them my story. But what was the point in opening up to total strangers when in the end, it was just going to tear my wounds open and shatter me into unsalvageable pieces?

"Oh, I get it. Trust me."

It sounded like she was scoffing, and I was almost offended, but when I turned my head to judge her expression, her eyes were softer than they had been all night.

As I let her sit in the silence, I realized that she was swimming now, too.

"Like, why reopen the wound only for a bunch of strangers to dump a truck of salt in it, right?"

"Yeah," I chuckled, "exactly."

Neither of us needed to say more, because for the first time, someone actually _got it._ Actually understood all of the fucked up notions in my head. So she didn't have to explain it any further. And neither did I.

But for some reason, there she was, staring at her plate with her curly hair falling in front of her face, just enough so that if I wanted to see the pain in her eyes that I heard in her voice, I'd have to make a collective effort.

"They don't get to know what I've gone through just to judge. They don't get to make me relive my demons just to pile on more pain."

I didn't know if she was talking more to me or to herself, but I just let her, nodding in solidarity because she was flatly saying everything I'd been screaming inside of my head every time my sister told me to _Just talk to someone about it._

"Come home with me."

For the second time tonight, it wasn't a question. It was a statement.

She was looking straight ahead as spoke, her voice blending with the lull of the fans in the diner kitchen. When I didn't say anything after a minute or two, she turned to me, the expression in her eyes sure to haunt me for the foreseeable future.

Her eyes were captured by ghosts whose fingers I could see clutching the life out of her, doing their best to hold her back. But the dull green was aching for something to rip her from those clutches, to make her _feel_ something again.

I didn't do this sort of stuff. Didn't go home with women I'd just met. Didn't smoke cigarettes for sport.

Didn't ever to drown my sorrows in the bottom of a bottle.

That wasn't me.

But I was doing a hell of a lot that wasn't me lately.

So she said _Come home with me_.

And I did.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Pam_**

Jim from AA was a good enough lay. I'll give him that much. He knew his way around a bedroom.

But at 2:37 in the morning, when I woke up to his back warm and sweaty pushed up against mine, his hands clutching too tightly at my bare skin as he slept heavily, he really needed to go.

It wasn't hard to shove myself away from his body, to rustle him less than gently until his head twitched and he was finally blinking awake long enough to hear me say, "You can't stay here," before I tossed his underwear nonchalantly onto my bed and made my way into the bathroom.

I can't say that isn't _un_common for me to kick guys out of bed nowadays. Ever since I'd had to shove Roy off of me, leaving foot-shaped bruises in his chest for the police to find, it wasn't so hard anymore.

But it wasn't really something I was chasing, if that makes any sense.

I didn't go into bars _trying_ to find someone to bring home to my new, shitty apartment. I didn't drink so that my inhibitions would be lost and _hooking up would be easier. _

No. I wasn't in this game for revenge.

I was in it to forget.

When I sat down at a barstool, it was because the guy behind the counter was going to supply me with as much tequila as the law allowed, as long as I was paying. Which I was, because every cent of my paycheck that didn't pay the bills was direct deposited into the cash register at Poor Richard's.

When I sat down at a barstool, it wasn't because the liquid gave me courage. It was because it served as an eraser, and stole away any feeling I had left in me, because it was just easier that way now.

When I sat down at a barstool, and some poor sap just so happened to take pity on the sad and lonely look in my eyes, the one that I used to hide the real pain, I let him. I let him take me home and try to make me feel something other than empty.

Sometimes it worked.

Mostly it didn't.

Mostly, I left right after, waiting until I was in my car to wipe away the tears that screamed in mockery as they fell down my cheeks, because _Isn't stuff like this exactly what got you into this whole mess in the first place?_ and Y_ou're doing nothing but proving him right_ and _You let him win once, why not just make it a pattern?_

And that's when my kitchen supply of tequila became an early breakfast, with a heaping side of regret dipped in ketchup, with my insides set on fire and my head drowning in just how unwound I'd let my life become in the last eleven months.

And anyway, it really only happened three times.

I was so obliterated the first that I couldn't even remember the guy's name if I tried.

I'm not proud of it, but...whatever. It's in the past, right?

Sam, my number two, was super kind about it. He even wanted to stay back and take care of me when I started throwing up. The joke was on him though. I hadn't even been that drunk. I was really just upset with myself, so disgusted to the point where I was puking my guts out as soon as he hugged me afterwards. It was the hysterical thought that someone could actually care about me again, because really, who _would_?

Ryan was the mistake.

The freaking kicker is that he's one of the few people who at least knew _something_ about the whole situation. He knew enough to _not_ take advantage. But he did. And I let him.

He couldn't finish, which I suppose was his karma.

So AA Jim was number four.

And, apparently, the most difficult.

Because after I washed my face, and brushed my teeth, and debated a little celebration of _over_ twenty-four hours with a night cap from the front door of my freezer, he was still fucking there.

At least he had put some clothes on.

I had no idea if he was still half asleep or what, but his unkempt brown hair was sticking up at wild angles, and one eye was still pinched shut as he rubbed at it with a closed fist. He kind of reminded me of an oversized toddler as he stood there in his boxer briefs with the corner of my blanket clutched in his other fist.

I smiled down at him like I was his mom trying to put him back to bed, picking up his jeans and t-shirt to slowly hand them over.

When I got back from taking out my contacts, he was more awake this time, but still half naked, and still standing at the edge of my bed looking entirely lost. Which was weird, because we had both been sober for this whole charade. But I thought, whatever. Maybe he was a rough waker. Maybe he just needed five more minutes.

But the longer he stood there, the more hyper aware I became of the entire situation.

He was still here. The reminder that I had ever been to AA in the first place. The reminder that I had actually _maybe_ started to _open up a little_, which was the opposite of Rule Number One: Never let on that you've been scarred in the past. Because if you open it up again, it's never going to go away.

The itchiness in my fingers possessed me, and I snatched the clothes I had just handed him out of his loose grasp and started dressing him myself. I needed him out of my room. He was the reminder, and I didn't keep those around anymore, didn't let myself wallow in my own pity. No. Fancy New Pam Beesly wasn't a wallower, and she sure as hell didn't let the past stick around to taunt her from the sidelines.

He needed to go.

So I pulled the t-shirt over his head with a sad smile, because his bed head was genuinely cute, and watched as he put his arms through all by himself. The jeans were a different story, but when I knelt down in front of him and started picking up his planted feet, he took the hint and did it mostly by himself.

I felt compelled, for some reason, to pull them up the rest of the way once he'd snuck his feet into the holes, kind of like I was packaging him up for the night before I sent him home. I smoothed the worn denim over his hips before pulling up the zipper and fastening the button in the front.

I don't know why I let my hands linger on his belt loops, or why I stood there staring at where my bitten fingernails scratched the denim of his pants. Why I let the little bit of warmth from my fingers and the little bit of warmth from his skin meet in the middle and put a feeling back into my body that had been absent for a long time now. My breath hitched, and I started following the lines of his t-shirt up his chest, to his collar, and the set line of his jaw.

I was grateful when he had to cough, because I don't think I would have been able to handle what his eyes could have done, what they might have said to me in the middle of the night where darkness was all that separated us from the truth. The sputtering in his chest seemed to rouse him enough to pull on his own socks and shoes. I suddenly needed to be somewhere else.

I breathed more easily when the cool of the freezer washed over my face, when I could at least _see_ the half empty bottle of tequila. Just the sight of it made my heartbeat settle from its rapid cadence, its presence bringing me back to my center.

But then he was stumbling out of the hallway, into the shadows of three-AM, still deciding if he was going to fight off sleep or pass out face down on my couch.

Which obviously couldn't happen.

I made a beeline for the door and opened it for him, the hallway lights intruding on our cozy corner of quietude where our secrets stayed hidden between my sheets. Now, he was squinting for an entirely different reason.

"So, uh…Can I, like, give you my phone number, or...?"

He was so cute, all sleep drunk, with his hands in his pockets and his hair still sticking up like a mad scientist and his voice scratchy and his one eye still glued shut as he tried to adjust to the lights.

"Oh, sweetie," I chuckled, "we don't have to do that."

Twice in a span of ten minutes, I felt like I was staring down at _him_, despite the fact that he was at least a foot taller than me. I crossed my arms as I leaned against the doorframe, doing my best not to literally kick him out the front door with my bare foot, because he was a reminder, and in the Beesly household, we tied the knot on reminders and left them on the curb.

He pinched his eyebrows, mulling over my words. My free pass. The goddamn _Get Out of Jail Free_ card that most men would literally kiss my feet for. What was his problem?

Finally, I cleared my throat, my body buzzing with a need to _just have him gone already_ so I could decide if I was going to have an early breakfast with Jose Cuervo before passing out for the night. Thirty hours was a cause for celebration, wasn't it?

When he finally said, "Okay," it was thick, one syllable weighing a lot all of a sudden, and for a split second, I almost grabbed him by the collar of his plain black t-shirt to make him stay, to finish what I'd started and look into his eyes. But then, I realized, I didn't know what exactly it was that I thought I would find.

I wanted him _gone_.

Because he was a reminder.

Because we didn't want to remember. We wanted to forget.

But it made it a hell of a lot harder to do that when he was halfway out the door, and his rich voice painted the hallway with, "I'll see you next Thursday," a sleep drunk nod, and a wave goodbye.

We didn't keep reminders.

We left them on the curb.

We wanted to _forget_.

But suddenly, my calendar had a date on it. A future.

I didn't make plans for the future anymore that resided outside of Ladies' Night specials and Thirsty Thursdays. Taking things one day at a time was about as much as I could handle, as much as I _wanted_ to handle.

The thought itself had me shaking, and my front door was barely locked before I had my hands in the freezer and my lips wrapped around my good old friend, Jose. As soon as the chilled liquid hit my throat, my body was warm, the tingles stopping almost immediately, the nerves that Jim from AA had left shooting out of my system as they were replaced by my vice.

Thirty hours was good enough for a first try.

* * *

Friday mornings were the days that I was most grateful for being a receptionist.

The job was easy, the benefits were good enough.

And, usually, I was too hungover after the Thursday night double bubble at Poor Richard's to do much more than answer phones anyway.

But waking up this Friday morning to my sheets buzzing way before my twenty-minute-warning alarm went off (because who the hell was I trying to impress at Dunder Mifflin anyway?) sobered me up quickly.

After digging around and basically flipping the bed upside down, I found the culprit in a sleek black cased iPhone that was _not_ the rose gold one that sat on my bedside table. Frowning, I turned it over, still buzzing in my hand as _Larisa Halpert_, and a close-up photo of a cross-eyed girl with her mouth wide open filled the screen.

Great.

That son of a bitch had a girlfriend.

Or a wife.

I never typically felt guilty after these things, but my face was hot and my fingers were shaking as I made the split second decision to actually answer the damn thing. This girl at least deserved to know that her man was a scumbag.

After my soft, _Hello?_ there was a distinct pause, as she obviously mulled over the fact that there was a woman answering the phone.

"Umm...hi. Sorry, can I talk to Jim please?"

"He uh...he isn't here. He left," I started, hoping that the fact that I hadn't let him spend the night was a good thing.

She whispered, "Fuck," and I could already feel my body shaking, my face hot with anger, for letting him put me in this position, because now, I was in _her_ shoes, which was exactly what I had been trying to run from.

Fancy New Pam Beesly wasn't a wallower. But Fancy New Pam Beesly also didn't ruin other people's lives.

Not after the hell she'd been through herself.

I was on the edge of my own apology when suddenly she was saying, "Alright. That helps. That helps a lot, actually. Would you mind if we could meet up somewhere so I can get his phone?"

We exchanged information, and I tried to wrap my head around how cool and collected she was about this whole situation when I realized that it had probably happened before, that this was obviously some pattern that this poor Larisa girl had let herself fall into.

When she got to my apartment, we were going to have a little heart to heart about _getting out before the water got too hot,_ because little did she know, I was too well versed in all of this.

It wasn't until I ended the call, intent on getting ready for the final workday of the week, that I actually looked at the clock that blinked from his home screen.

It was only four o'clock in the goddamn morning.

No wonder I could still feel a dull thud in my temples.

I would make it to that AA meeting next week, alright. And I would set that asshole on fire in the middle of it for more than one reason.

It was tempting to go through all of his shit, to scroll through his texts and his emails and his pictures, to try to find all of the evidence that poor Larisa had been missing. But by the time I had made the decision to abso_lutely_ take screenshots of everything just in case he tried to weasel his way out, the phone had locked up, leaving me with the still taunting numbers of _4:04 AM_, and a photo of some beach that was nowhere near Scranton, Pennsylvania.

I wrapped my robe around my body tightly and tried desperately to fight the urge I had to run to my freezer and finish what I hadn't already a few hours ago, but too soon, my buzzer rang, and I hadn't even prepared the speech I was about to give this girl before I was face to face with eleven months in my past, except I was the other woman this time, and quite literally on the verge of vomiting all over her Converse at the prospect.

She seemed too calm when I opened the door, her _Hi_ apologetic, as if _she_ was the one impeding on my happiness, which, I guess at 4:22 in the morning, she technically _was_, but in the grand scheme of things, who was the real loser here?

I let her in, feeling my cheeks redden as I handed her the cell phone that was imprinting third degree burns into my skin. She stared down at it and smiled sadly.

"I'm so sorry to bother you this early in the morning. It's just that Jim wasn't answering his phone and...gosh, I don't even know if you...I worry about my brother a lot. When he doesn't answer, I start thinking the worst."

My stomach sank to my shoes and flip-flopped back up again. Here I was on the edge of spewing confessions and warnings and apologies that came with a battle plan for how she was going to get her life back on track.

And here she was, Jim from AA's _sister_.

Not his girlfriend or his wife.

I wasn't the _other woman_.

As realization smacked me square in the face, the color dripped from my face, and though I could feel it, she must have _seen_ it, because suddenly, she was grabbing my arm, and asking, _Are you okay?_ somewhere off in the distance.

The ringing in my ears drowned out the flashes of my own memories, the ones that I had been so carefully charging up as ammunition, to show her how to escape. But now, those memories were just sitting there unused, built up only to crash over me. I was gasping for air, drowning up to my nose in everything I had tried to push away.

"Sweetie, you don't look so great," she said, the back of her hand cool on my forehead. "Let me get you some water."

There was a glass in my hand before I could register what was happening, and thank God she was there, because that wave of panic had been about to swallow me whole.

She looked tense, and it wasn't until I realized that I probably still looked as white as a ghost, that I was the cause.

I tried to wave her off, tried to dismiss her out the door, but that look in her eyes was a mirror of the one I had seen so often from my own sister that I just let her take care of me for a couple of minutes.

When the numbness finally tingled out of my fingertips and I could feel the glass sweating in my hand, I twitched my head from side to side and mouthed a breathy _Sorry_, feeling my cheeks grow pink with embarrassment.

"No, it's okay," she smiled sheepishly. "I should probably get going though. Thanks again for letting me stop by and grab this."

She held up his phone and stood from the couch. I followed her to the door.

I chewed my lip as she reached for the handle, my arms crossed in an attempt to keep all of the gnawing thoughts inside, but one still escaped anyway.

"Hey, so...if Jim isn't home…"

It was hard to work out the thoughts that were using my head as a wrestling ring; not ten minutes ago, AA Jim was number three on my hit list. Now though, in the eyes of his sister standing in my living room at four-thirty in the morning, her eyes tired from trying so hard, I thought about the haunting look in _his_ eyes when he'd followed me inside, the pause as he watched me undress, the twitch in his hands before he let himself touch me.

I didn't _want_ a reminder. I didn't _want_ to make an attachment.

But then, Larisa was saying, "He's okay. I know where he is."

And when her eyes softened and her smile tugged into a wistful shape, those walls came crashing down, and suddenly, I needed to know everything about him.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Pam_**

My week went by without much fanfare.

Friday morning, though, I _did_ make a pit stop by Meredith's desk as soon as I walked in the front door. I was out of airplane shooters in the bottom of my own desk, and we frequently traded, like smokers bumming cigarettes, only what _we_ were doing was technically illegal.

I really didn't care though.

I wasn't too heavy on the at-work drinking anymore, but after my morning run in with Larisa, I needed a hit or I wasn't going to survive until 5 o'clock when I could get into a bar.

But as the vodka warmed my veins and feeling came back into my fingers and I could finally breathe again at a steady pace, I suddenly felt sick to my stomach.

I wasn't going to throw up or anything. I rarely did that anymore, which in retrospect was a good thing, but also, it meant that my body was so used to the alcohol that it was no longer rejecting it.

I generally tried my best not to linger too much on that thought.

This _sick to my stomach_ came from a place that I didn't even want to think about.

Because it was creeping behind the counter when I went to the kitchen for coffee.

It was there in Meredith's eyes when she gave me that sad look that said _I know where you've been, pal, and I know where you're going._

It peeked through the cracks in the bathroom stalls when I wanted to just hide from people for_ five friggen minutes._

But it hit me square in the chest when I snuck out during lunch, pulled out my lighter and the stale box of Roy's cigarettes that I found buried in the seat of my car a couple weeks ago. The box that I decided right then and there that I would finish, to prove some sort of twisted point to myself.

As soon as I stuck the second to last one between my lips and lit the flame, _his_ eyes were there.

AA Jim was the one putting that stupid gut wrenching horrible feeling in me.

The sad, scared look in his eyes followed the nicotine through my veins, mixed with the little bit of alcohol from the shot I'd downed before I had even booted up my computer, coursed throughout my body, and smacked me sideways.

I threw the cigarette to the ground, wanting to reject it immediately, crunching it forcefully with my shoe until the tendons in my ankle lit up and I could no longer feel gravel crunching beneath my dirty shoes because I'd gotten it all.

And then, I _did_ throw up. Mostly vodka and coffee.

I was breathing heavily as I sank slowly to the ground, my knees pulled to my chest as I balanced my forehead on them and willed the tears to _just go away._ Fancy New Beesly didn't _cry_. She buried her emotions, numbed them with alcohol and cigarettes and strange men in bars. But she did. Not. Cry.

Okay. Well, apparently she did.

And she did for awhile, because eventually, Meredith came out to get me.

"It's okay, Pam. I told Michael you were coming down with the flu. I'm technically supposed to give you a ride home, since you're 'sick' and everything, but if you're good enough to drive, I'll just bum around the parking lot for awhile."

I wiped the tears angrily with the backs of my hands, and tried to shake out the stuffiness in my head, but it didn't work, not really.

"No. I'm fine. I can get myself home, thanks."

She gave me a curt nod and pulled a long drag on her own cigarette that she must've lit while I was gathering myself together.

I was saved from the humiliation of having to return back upstairs to get my things because she had my purse in her hand. Going back upstairs would mean more sad eyes. Would mean people who _knew something_ passing their own judgment.

_Pam's drunk at work again._

_It's been almost a year and Pam's still not over it._

_God, Pam has really let herself go._

And I didn't need that.

Didn't need another meeting with Michael and Toby both on the same side of the table for once as they told me that if I _couldn't pull it together_ that they were _going to have to take drastic measures_. Didn't need them offering me shoulder squeezes and sliding pamphlets across the table like they had any idea what I was going through.

I mean, technically, Michael knew more than most. He was there. I'm pretty sure he'd been part of the police report.

But anyway, I didn't need that today.

Not when Jim Friggen Halpert was giving me enough trouble as it was, what with his sad eyes and his _See you next Thursday._

I pulled out of that Dunder Mifflin parking lot like I did every Friday, but instead of turning into Poor Richard's or The Bog or Coopers or Kelly's or Brixx's or Carmen's, I pulled onto the highway, and with the windows rolled down and my chin trembling as I tried not to crumble, I was in my parent's living room an hour and forty-seven minutes later.

It was so much easier for me to detox on mom and dad's couch.

They didn't keep booze in the house anymore, and they knew _everything_ so they didn't ask questions.

Mostly, mom just made me my favorite meals and took me shopping, and dad pulled out a deck of cards and we played poker or watched baseball.

When I started getting shaky, mom would make me tea, or we'd go for a walk to fight off the energy.

We didn't talk about it though. Which is ex_actly_ what I wanted. To be away from everything.

I knew Penny was out of town, in New York for a summer internship. It would have been a different story if she was home for the summer, because she was the one with all of the questions and all of the answers and all of the solutions that I wasn't asking for in the first place.

The proverbial bug up my ass, my little sister was.

She was the entire reason I went to that damned AA meeting in the first place.

Because while she was packing away her belongings for three months in the Big Apple and saying_ Please, Pammy, while I'm gone, you've got to try and make yourself better,_ I somehow managed to turn _Will it make you happy if I go to an AA meeting? _into her birthday present.

It saved me money anyway. More to spend in the liquor department.

And it worked, too, because for the first time in a long time, the look on her face wasn't _sad_ and _sorrow_ and _disappointed_. I sent her away to New York City looking happy and bubbly and bright.

I guess it was a good thing that she was too busy to _actually_ check in with more than the occasional text that I brushed off easily with _Everything is fine, little sis. Tell me about NY!_

But Penny wasn't home, so mom and dad didn't push the envelope, and for forty-eight hours, I made it without a drop.

Of course, I was shaking so badly on my Sunday night drive home that I surprised myself when I didn't drop the bottle of tequila and send it smashing to the floor before I could open it.

It wouldn't have mattered though. I'd have licked it off the floor at that point.

I drained the last drop and put the empty glass bottle in the sink. I had two others chilling behind a half-eaten carton of ice cream.

I sank to my kitchen floor, my head in my hands, my shoes still on, and I breathed in deeply. The alcohol lapped like slow waves at the sand, as it brushed away the jitters, the drumming in my head, the voices that were creeping and crawling their way along my brain.

The only thing it didn't, _wouldn't_ erase, was those stupid eyes. They were there even if I closed mine, even as I thudded my head back against my kitchen cabinets, even as I pulled myself up from the floor and clicked open a new bottle and did my best to wash his stupid eyes away.

So, I say the week went by without much fanfare because it was pretty normal for me. Wake up. Go to work. Answer phones. Mix tequila with a Slurpee from 7-Eleven at lunch. Nurse it all in the darkness of my apartment over dinner.

The only thing different was that now, even though my memories were repressed, squashed down under the guise of alcohol, AA Jim was sitting on top like a throne, and he wouldn't go away.

* * *

I was planning on making it to AA that week sober. God, I really was. Twenty-four hours at least. But I was nervous, and honestly, taking a shot a couple hours before I had to leave wasn't going to hurt anybody. It would _help_. At least that's what I kept telling myself.

He was already there when I walked in, his back to the door with his head hung low. He was wearing the same black zippered hoodie he had been wearing last week, and his hair was in the same tousled style that was either _I just got out of bed_ or _I spent a lot of time and a lot of product to make it look like I just got out of bed. _Somehow, I was expecting it to be the former.

I felt my whole body run warm as I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and pushed my way to the empty seat beside him.

"Hey," I whispered, tucking my purse under my chair.

He had his hands clasped between his widespread legs, his head hung low. When he looked up, his eyes were dark, hollow. He definitely hadn't spent too much time on his hair. Whatever it was he spent his time doing took a lot more toll on him than hairspray and mousse.

He smiled, or at least, to the two of us, it was a smile. His lips curled upward, anyhow.

"Hey. Glad you could make it."

I did the _this counts as a smile_ thing back.

"I figured I'd sit next to you this time so we can poke fun together instead of from across the circle."

"You were the kid in school who always got told to stop talking when the teacher was talking, weren't you?"

He chuckled, and somehow, his lips were doing something that was kind of an _actual_ smile, and I felt a little more at ease.

When group started though, I kind of felt like an asshole for deciding right away that I was going to make jokes. I could sense his tension, too, and mainly I stayed quiet, aside from my, "Hi, I'm Pam, and I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for maybe an hour now, at this point."

I bit my lip, waiting for the sad eyes, and I stared at my lap to avoid them. But then suddenly I wanted them to know, wanted to rub it in their faces that _the girl from last week with the jokes_ had actually made some progress.

"But, uh, last weekend I did make it a full forty-eight hours."

And then, of course, I was instantly regretting _that_ move. Because now people were talking to me, and saying things like _That's great Pam_, and _Baby steps, Pam_ and _Slow progress is still progress_, and I was _willing_ the clock to move faster so that I could just get the hell out of there.

"Jim, would you like to say anything tonight?" asked Noah, the man who was seemingly in charge.

His _No_ was curt, rehearsed, but it weighed heavily on my own heart as the guy to Jim's right started in with, "Hi, my name is Calvin, and I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for seventy-two days now. Yesterday I sent out a couple of job applications…"

Why didn't he want to talk?

As we made our way around the circle, I bit my lip and glanced over towards Jim. His head was still hung low, but as soon as I turned my head, he must have known, because he was looking, too. He shrugged, smiled this sad, pathetic little thing, and went back to staring at the floor.

When group was over, I saw three middle-aged women hunkering down on me like fighter pilots. I froze, knowing immediately that they were going to offer condolences and counseling and a _helping hand_ but honestly, I didn't need any of that shit from some Suzie Homemaker.

I was glad for my decision to sit next to Jim instead of across the circle, because before they could reach me, I felt him tugging on my sleeve.

"Hey, I'm starving. Do you want to grab a bite?"

He eyed the three women, then me, and for once, his eyes weren't sad, but they were mischievous and a little playful and I couldn't have nodded more quickly.

"God, thanks for saving me back there," I said as we pushed through the gym doors and into the cool breeze.

"Oh, anytime. You really don't want to get mixed up with those three." He shoved his hands in his pockets and we slowed our pace a little. I cocked my eyebrow, urging him to continue. "You see, Debbie's kind of the ringleader of the sponsors, if you will. She tries to force counseling down your throat like she's your mother, and once you're in her clutches, you're kind of toast."

"Wow. Looks like I dodged a bullet there," I said with my eyebrows high.

"Absolutely."

"I guess that makes you my hero, then," I joked, and he rolled his eyes, laughed, and cocked his head towards the parking lot.

I followed him to the same diner.

We sat at the same stools, ordered the same meals.

"So what happened to the jokes tonight?" he asked. "I was waiting for a stand-up comedy routine and I got _nothing_! You left me high and dry back there."

He smirked as he bit into his burger. I puffed out my own laugh.

"I'm sorry, what did you want me to say. 'It's great that you and your sponsor had an hour long phone conversation when you were really tempted to hit the bottle, Sandra, but some of us have better ways to spend that hour. Have you tried drinking?'"

He choked on his sip of Coke.

"Yes! See, _that_ would have made that entire hour a little less depressing!"

"Yeah, right. And then I would have had several people barking down my throat for being insensitive." I laughed more at his reaction, at the Coke dribbling down his chin, at the dark humor of it all.

"Like, what do I even need a sponsor for?"

"I think they're supposed to hold you accountable," he chuckled, snatching a fry from my plate.

"I don't need to be held accountable," I snarked back, sliding my plate away from his grasp. "I'm a big girl. I make my own decisions. And besides, my sister narks me enough as it is."

"God, do I know what you mean," he rolled his eyes and smiled.

"Hey, your sister seems really nice, for what it's worth," I offered. He turned and cocked his eyebrow at me. "You know, when she came to pick up your phone. She just...she seems to really care about you."

I seemed to have struck a chord with that one, and I watched him go someplace else, his eyes falling to his plate as he let out a long breath. He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, as he downed the rest of his Coke.

He was silent for a while after that, but I needed to know. So I pushed all of my nerves into words, my fingers buzzing as I tapped them against the counter.

"Where'd you go? After you left my place. She said...she said she knew where you were, and I just...did you hit up a bar or something? I mean, I know I'm not your sponsor or anything," I chuckled nervously, still staring at my plate, "but...you can, you know, talk to me. I'm not going to judge. I mean, look at me, I did a shot before I came just to calm me down."

Nervous laughter was still bubbling around my words as I finally looked up, but what I saw mirrored in him was the exact opposite.

He was white. Not pale, not sick grey or veiny. He was white like a sheet. And then he was red, like someone had flipped a switch. It started in his neck, passed over veins that were beginning to tunnel up like molehills under his skin, until it reached his hairline, and by the time my eyes were there, I was absolutely certain that his style was _I rolled out of bed this way because I literally have no effort left inside me._

"I don't need a sponsor."

_That_ sent a chill down my spine. The dark timbre, the cold, dead look in his eyes.

"I don't need to talk to _anyone_ about _any_ of this. Got it?"

It was like he had snapped.

And I'd seen it so often before, with the few friends I'd made at the bars, how they would snap when they got to a certain point.

I'd seen it in myself. The time I'd snapped at work, when Angela was whispering to Michael that Roy would be coming up on my lunch break, while I was out of the office, to pick up his last check, and no sooner was I hurling my keyboard, which was the closest thing I could reach, and stomping out the door with my water bottle already pursed against my lips.

His movements were mechanical as he reached for his wallet, laid a twenty on the counter, and pushed his body away from the stool.

I started to panic, wishing simultaneously to take back what I'd said, and that I had a drink in my hand.

But when I stood too, leaving my empty plate on the countertop, he stopped abruptly and spun to face me.

It was the first time that I was seeing something other than the short range of emotions in Jim's eyes. They were either lifeless, or so sadly smiling that it was pitiful. But now, this anger, this rage that burned into the whiteness of his eyes made me want to hide, made me want to throw up and cry and hug him maybe until it went away.

"Please, don't follow me. Just...please. Leave me alone."

What was I supposed to do?

He wasn't drunk, so he was fine to drive himself home, obviously. But at the same time, rage driving was dangerous, too.

The door to the diner swung in and out four times before it finally settled and sealed shut. After watching his car turn out of the parking lot, I hunched my shoulders, paid my bill, and made my own way home.

Somehow, with the shock of that look on his face imprinted into my brain, I made it to bed without having another sip.

**_Larisa_**

After I left Pam's, he was right where I expected him to be.

The shock never went away, though.

When he didn't answer his phone, or didn't come home right away, my first thought was always lights and sirens and my brother dead in a ditch somewhere.

Luckily, I knew his patterns too well by now.

I had spent a lot of the down time, when he was basically comatose from both the trauma and the shock and the alcohol and the sedatives that they'd given him in therapy, making phone calls to the bars around town.

Scranton is small. Everyone knew about what had happened to poor Jimmy Halpert. It was really no trouble to ask them all to stop serving him. I was so tired of getting those phone calls at two in the morning and picking him up three sheets to the wind.

But it was more than that.

I was tired of seeing the life in his eyes replaced by thin red lines, and his actions fueled by cheap whiskey.

I was tired of seeing him so sad, so sucked dry of everything that made him my Jimmy.

I wanted my brother back.

He refused to tell me where he went after AA. Who he went home with. What happened.

Why he had managed to get himself _there_, when it had been so long, when we had been doing so well.

My only advantage was that I'd been through this all before.

For the first four days after, he almost refused to leave, and even after mom and dad managed to haul him away scratching and clawing, he'd sneak out in the middle of the night. We had plenty of silent nights with a bag of burgers and a blanket on the cold hard ground during those days. Not much talking went on.

But then again, not much talking went on now, anyway.

Sure, he was finally seeing a therapist that he sort of clicked with. But when he got home, and I asked him how it went, he shrugged, grunted, and threw himself at the bed in my guest room, face down in the pillows until the sun woke him up.

Or, more realistically, _I _woke him up. Dragged him out of bed. Made him eat something. Made him watch cartoons while I got ready for work. Made him promise to be on his best behavior until I could check on him at lunch.

Made myself sick with worry until I did, and he was still on the couch, staring blankly at my television, as if he hadn't moved since I'd left.

So this week, I set up precautions. I blocked off my evening during that AA meeting, fully intent on dragging him off the ground again if I had to. He didn't make it home right after AA, but I gave him some time, watched the hours tick by until I couldn't take it anymore, the lights and sirens already flashing in my head.

But he wasn't _there_ this time, which had me more worried than anything.

I wanted to check the bars, to start making phone calls, but I was already on a list at every establishment in Scranton, and they were supposed to call me first if he so much as sniffed near the doors. So the only logical thing to do was to stop by home first before I called the police.

The light in the kitchen was on, the crashing and clattering loud and familiar. I sighed, so sad that we were getting to this point again.

He was throwing everything out of the freezer, the contents of the fridge already scattered on my kitchen floor.

He was looking for bottles that I had thrown out months ago. But in this state, I couldn't really do much to stop him.

Tears were hot on his cheeks as he sent a bag of chicken nuggets flying to the ground, his own sad whines when he hit the back of the freezer ending with a resounding _SLAM_ of the door that shook the cereal boxes on top.

"Jimmy," I said, alerting him to my presence before I got any closer. I knew he was sick of the sadness in my voice but I couldn't help it.

"Where is it, Larisa? I know you have some. I know...you've gotta have _something_."

The veins in his forehead were popping as he gritted his teeth less in anger and more in _pain_.

Tentatively, I took another step, making my way effortlessly around the ice cream cartons and ketchup bottles because their maze was too familiar now. I put a hand on his forearm, and when he didn't pull away, I put another on his chest and waited for him to look down at me.

"Hey. It's all gone. We dumped it all. You remember that, don't you?"

He was panting now, his breaths short and quick like he was having a panic attack. I had to get him a paper bag as soon as he sat down.

"I need...I just need a little…"

He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at it wildly.

I put both hands on his cheeks then, directing him to look at me, to ground him to something other than his cravings.

"You don't, Jimmy. You don't need it. Hey, I'm right here, okay? I'm right here, and we're going to get through this."

He whined, biting his lip as he finally gave in and sunk quickly to the floor, effectively pulling me with him.

The crying was endless tonight. Sometimes he got angry and refused to sit; he'd storm up to his room and stare into the darkness. Sometimes he would fight, and those were the nights I often dreaded, because even though I knew he would never hurt me, it was still scary to see him that way.

But tonight, it was the tears, his eyes closed but flowing rivers as he lay his head on my shoulder, his body limp, barely held up by my kitchen cabinets.

I rubbed my fingers along his scalp and whispered encouragements, but I knew he wasn't hearing anything, wasn't _feeling_ anything, because his mind was somewhere else entirely.

"I can't do it, Larisa. I can't…I need..."

Those were the words that always broke me. When he hit bottom and those two little words, that_ I can't_ hit with such finality. I couldn't lose him again.

I sat up then, urging him to pick up his head and look at me as I fought back my own tears.

With my hands positioned on his shoulders, I looked into his eyes, the once bright green of my happy brother now lifeless before me.

"You _can_, Jimmy. You just...you have to figure out a way to do it without a bottle."

He gulped, a squeak caught in his throat as he swallowed more tears.

"I don't know how _not_ to, 'Riss. I...it's the only way…"

And then he let out a low sob, and all I could do was hold him as melting ice cream seeped from the container and pooled on my kitchen floor.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Jim_**

Can I just say that I really, really hate that my sister is trying to help me through all of this?

I mean I get it. She loves me. She cares about me. She just _wants the old Jimmy back_. But how do I politely inform her that _the old Jimmy_ is dead, and he isn't coming back, so she's just going to have to get used to the one she has now, like it or not?

And what is all of this bullshit about helping me _through_ this? Like I'm just stuck in a tunnel or some shit, and once we finally find our way out of the maze, everything will be sunshine and roses again?

No. There was nothing to _get through_. It wasn't a tunnel. It was a wall. A brick wall dead end that I, as the proverbial crash test dummy, could not make my way around. This was just _me_ now. I knew that I was broken beyond repair, but, quite honestly, she was just going to have to deal with the pieces that were left.

I didn't need her holding my hand and hiding alcohol from me. I needed her to be a good little sister and keep her mouth shut and and keep her nose out of my damn business.

And as soon as _that_ thought crossed my mind, I started to spiral again.

Because this _new Jim_ with the brokenness and stuff was kind of a real asshole sometimes. And I knew it. I saw that behind all of the sadness in my sister's eyes, there was this anger, this annoyance, because she really _was_ just trying to help, and here I was basically telling her to piss off half the time, and locking myself in my bedroom the other half.

The bedroom in _her_ place. Because I had nowhere else to go. And she had taken me in without question, and still to this _day_ hadn't asked for money.

Not that I had offered yet, but in all reality, I could've. Should have. If I had any income to give to her, anyway.

But at the same time, how could you politely tell your little sister to just leave well enough alone? That you were _here_ now, and there was no point in going up, because most days, you just didn't _want_ to go up anymore.

She was never going to give up on me, though. And sometimes, I hated that. Sometimes, I really wish she just _would_.

And then, there was this girl _Pam_. The one who started coming to AA, the one who came with jokes and cigarettes and her own darkness in her own eyes who was making me feel doubly bad about everything. About what had happened to get me here, about blowing off my sister, about the fact that I even had to be in AA in the first place.

But twice in the span of one night, I had managed to piss off the only two people on the face of the planet who either knew what I was going through, or could empathize to a scary degree. For the first time in months, I was feeling something other than straight sadness or sorry for myself.

I felt like a real ass.

That's what woke me up from where I'd passed out on the kitchen floor, like a pit in my stomach. It was so out of character for _new Jim_that it startled me awake before the rustling in the kitchen could. But at least the soft clattering roused me enough from my misery to get me up and moving.

Because I knew that noise. And I was primarily the cause of it.

Larisa was sorting through the bottles that I'd thrown out of the fridge, the freezer. A bunch of it was going into the garbage, which I felt terrible about. She had her back turned to me, and as the rest of the rocky road ended up in the trash, I saw her pause and let out a huge sigh.

And I really took in the exhaustion that painted over her skin like foundation.

It was all because of me. All _for_ me, really.

I grabbed the bottle nearest to my feet and weighed my options, turning the bottle of grape jelly over in my hands before deciding it could probably go back in the fridge before standing on my knees and making my way slowly across the kitchen tile to put it back.

When I set the bottle onto the door of the fridge, I heard her intake a sharp breath before turning to face me. Her cheeks softened, her eyes widening as she tried to asses the situation, which kind of sucked when you realized that your little sister was literally staring you down to see if you were going to go hostile again or not, and sucked even more because you knew it was your fault.

I offered her a sheepish grin, grabbed the mustard by my knee, and put it next to the jelly. Her eyes lifted a bit as she smiled, and I thought I could see tears, but we both turned too quickly for me to get a good peak. Regardless of my current head state, Halperts really didn't show emotion, so cleaning up the kitchen was a good distraction for the both of us.

When the refrigerator door finally sealed shut, we faced each other again, and I rubbed the back of my neck as the embarrassment began to truly flood.

"Hey, listen, I'm-"

"Do not apologize," Larisa cut in. "Jimmy, I…"

She stared at the floor, and as she was searching for words, I cut back in again.

"No, 'Riss, I _need_ to apologize. That's _exactly_ what I should be doing."

Her head snapped up and her eyes searched me.

"I haven't been...I just trashed your kitchen trying to find booze, Larisa. So, I'm _going_ to apologize."

When she nodded, and I choked out an _I'm so fucking sorry, 'Riss_, it took about a split second before she had her arms thrown around my middle and her head nuzzling my chest.

We stayed like that for quite awhile, just hugging in the late-night-early-morning hours, under the lowlights of the kitchen.

"I just hate seeing you like this, Jimmy," she whispered against the cotton of my shirt.

All I could really say was, "I know," because I did. I'd heard it a thousand times. But now, in the face of my own fuck ups, with melting ice cream sticking to the socks on my feet, it was a little more _real_.

* * *

I had one apology under my belt, and things with Larisa were actually looking a little more positive. We ate a few meals together at the kitchen table instead of dinnertime rolling around and me taking a bowl of cereal up to my room to sulk over. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

As I sat in my chair waiting for AA to start on Thursday night, my knee bouncing wildly with nervous jitters, I was starting to think that this one might be a hell of a lot harder.

I kept looking over my shoulder towards the door, waiting for Pam to show up. But as we opened in prayer and I had to bow my head, I realized that I might have fucked that one up entirely.

We were about three people around the circle when my floor watching was interrupted by a pair of dirty Converse. As I followed them up the pair of jeans they were connected to, my body grew warm. Her curly hair was covering her face as she tucked her purse beneath her chair and tried not to cause a ruckus. I bent my head, trying my best to catch her attention.

"My car wouldn't start. I had to call an Uber," she whispered when it finally worked.

My eyes turned down as I frowned empathetically, but she just rolled her eyes as if to say _I've been through worse_, and actually smiled a bit.

This week, she was, _Pam_ and she was _sober for thirty-six hours_, but _if my car keeps crapping out, I might not make it another night. _

I wasn't the only one who laughed tonight. But then, myself _and_ Blake, the new guy, were both getting the stink eye, and I had to bury my head in the floor and in Pam's laughter.

I saved her this week from the women who were _definitely_ gearing up to say things like _Thirty-six hours, Pam!_ and _Don't let the little things in life set you back, Pam!_ with the simple nod of my head towards the door, and we were kind of quiet for awhile before I took a deep breath and just dove in.

"Hey, look, I'm...I'm sorry for what happened last week at the diner. It's just...I didn't want to talk about it. _Don't_ want to talk about it," I amended quickly, just in case she was one of those who would have follow-up questions since this was a new day. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged, and I saw that little half-smile make an appearance under the blush of her cheeks.

"'S okay," she mumbled. "It happens. I don't always want to talk about _it_ either, you know. I get it."

"Well, yeah, but just because you _get it _doesn't mean I get to act like a dick," I chuckled. And she did, too, which made me feel better.

"You're right, it doesn't. Burgers are on you this week."

She shot a mischievous grin over her shoulder as she walked ahead of me towards my car.

As we waited at the counter for our burgers, she traced the condensation from her drink on the countertop.

"You sure you don't wanna talk about it?"

I could tell she wanted to say more, when I glanced over to see her lips parted, but she closed them softly, let out a soft breath, and shook her head from side to side.

"I'm good, but thank you." I was trying to be more sincere. I did appreciate the offer. But at the same time, I probably wouldn't ever be ready to _talk about it. _"Actually, can we just...talk about something that isn't heavy? I'm kind of tired of the heavy."

She nodded heavily, as if she was in hardcore agreement. But for some reason, neither of us could come up with a topic, and were instead subjected to the hum of the diner fan and the sound of soft music in the background.

"So...got any hobbies?" She said it with a drunk laugh and hung her head to the side. "God, we sound like we're speed dating."

"We kind of do," I said quickly. I laughed too, the hilarity of her comment superseding the fact that we both felt awkward at not being able to start a friggen conversation. "Should I be wearing a name tag?"

"Only if you _promise_ to have it clipped over a pocket protector."

"Sold."

Our laughter tapered as the waitress slipped our plates in front of us.

"God, no, wait. Don't wear a pocket protector."

"What, you got something against nerds?" I teased, pointing towards her with a fry.

"No, you'll just remind me way too much of my weird coworker. I don't like him. And for the moment, I like you, so...don't ruin it."

I thought I saw a little bit of blush wind up her neck, but it was quickly hidden by the curl of her hair as she turned to take a sip of her own drink.

"So," I started again as I chewed on my burger, "got any hobbies? I mean, aside from going to AA, of course."

She snorted, finished her fry, and stared thoughtfully behind the counter, cocking her head as she did. It would have been kind of cute, if I had the capacity to think those things anymore.

"I used to draw. A lot, actually."

The way her voice hitched and her face scrunched made it seem like she had surprised herself at the memory, that at one time in her life, she had been an artist.

"Oh yeah?" I asked, urging her to continue.

"Yeah." This syllable was wistful, almost, like it just so happened to be following the breath she was exhaling. "I liked to draw when I was little, and I took a couple of art classes in high school."

"Really? That's pretty cool. What did you draw?"

"Oh, it was nothing special," she brushed off. "Still lifes, mostly. Sometimes I'd do people, but mostly, like, I don't know... the places around me."

She paused, probably losing herself in the pencil lines in her head as her lips twitched into a sort of smile for a moment.

"I had this...I don't know, this _dream_ forever ago that I was going to sit on a beach somewhere looking out at the Pacific Ocean and draw the sunset. And then I'd hang it over my bed."

She turned towards me, and smiled sadly, and I had the answer to my question before I even asked.

"Did you ever do it?"

She shook her head, keeping her lips tucked into that neat smile. "I actually did end up going to college for art. And it was always in the plan but...then I…"

And then I lost her, in the way that I probably looked whenever someone mentioned _sports journalism_, and I was all hopeful at first until the train came barreling into _that moment in time_ and everything sort of shrivelled up.

I knew exactly how she felt, grasping for air as the memories all but sucked her under. So I threw out a lifeline and I saved her.

"I used to play basketball back in the day."

Her eyes said _God, thank you_, and she breathed easily at the slight nod of my head.

"Wait. _You_? Tall, gangly Gumby man? Played _basketball_? No. Not a chance in hell."

With wide eyes and a cocked brow, I reached over and forcefully snatched a french fry from her plate.

"Hey now. There will be _none_ of the sass, Miss…"

"Beesly," she supplied her smile warm.

"Beesly."

I thought, for a moment, that I liked the way that those two syllables seemed to roll off my tongue.

"None of the sass, Miss Beesly. This is a safe bubble for _serious_ conversation only."

I cocked my other eyebrow and drew my lips down, which made her giggle more, and all of a sudden, my body was a little bit warm in the cool air conditioning of the diner.

"_Any_way," I continued. "Yes, I _did_ in fact play basketball."

"Well, were you any _good_?"

I scoffed, feigning offense as I placed my palm flat to my chest.

"_Was_ I _good_? Honestly, I'm offended."

"Well, hey, all I'm saying is _you're_ sitting in a diner in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, and Zion Williamson is currently in a bidding war between Adidas, Nike, and Reebok for branding rights."

She crossed her arms and pulled her lips into a smug smile as my jaw hit the counter, because apparently, this girl knew basketball, which meant this road was only going to get more dangerous.

"Oh?" was all I could manage, and she laughed while I struggled to push out more words. "Alright, so, the lady knows basketball, apparently."

I twisted my hand at the wrist, motioning in space as she continued to giggle.

"Over/under that Kyrie Irving goes back to Boston and gets booed out of the city?" she offered, and I hung my head and laughed.

"Nah," I said, playing along, "I don't think Celtics fans would let him back inside TD Garden, let alone in the city. They want him gone."

"You're right, you're right."

She nodded as she piled her used napkin and silverware on her plate and pushed it towards the edge of the counter.

"So...Jim Halpert, basketball extraordinaire? Go on."

"Oh, god, where to begin," I said, pushing air out through pursed lips, which made her laugh, and then I realized that I was now starting to do it on purpose. I laughed, though, unable to keep up the charade. "I mean, I'm obviously pretty tall, so it was the sport I took to as a kid. I made second-string varsity as a freshman, and started my sophomore year. We won two regionals, one conference championship, and we went to state once."

She was smiling at me as I went on my tangent, with her chin resting on a closed fist.

"Did you win? State?"

"No," I chuckled. "No, we, uh...we choked in the last quarter. Our defense totally shit the bed. We lost by like twenty points or something."

"Aww," she chuckled, her teeth showing. "That sucks. I'm sorry."

I shrugged.

"Nothing you could've done about it."

She drew circles in the condensation again, and I wondered if she was drawing anything in particular, if she was trying to draw the places around her, or if these were just arbitrary shapes.

"Did you play in college at all?" She paused thoughtfully before asking, "Did you _go_ to college...at all?" and then hung her head, as if embarrassed by her own question.

"I did." I nodded and hung my own head, realizing where this road was headed, knowing I should stop before I got too far down the pavement. "And yes, I did play in college. All four years."

I stopped then, cutting myself off before the rabbit hole truly caved in over my head.

She saw it my eyes. And she knew. And she nodded twice and then stared down at the water picture she'd been working on.

"I feel like walking. Do you feel like walking?"

I nodded, smiled real small, paid the bill (for both of us, since I owed her for being an asshole), and let her hop in my car to drive to the park.

I was leaning against my door, pulling my phone out of my pocket, as I heard the passenger side door open and close, the crunch of the gravel underneath her shoes as she rounded to my side.

"Got a hot date you had to cancel?" she asked, crossing her arms as she leaned her back against the door of my car.

"Nah," I chuckled, waving my phone arbitrarily between us. "I, uh...my sister. She gets kind of worried, as you were made aware of firsthand."

The breeze pushed between us before we were both laughing awkwardly.

"Wow, we kind of suck at normal, don't we?" she offered, and it made me laugh more as I agreed.

"Yeah, yeah we really do. C'mon."

I cocked my head towards the path that was lit with little lantern lights and she followed next to me, leaving about a body's worth of space between us. Instead of trying to find something that wasn't _heavy_ and then getting all awkward, we just played twenty questions. A couch, a basketball, Gumby, beets, Keanu Reeves, and Justin Bieber later, the circular path led us back to the parking lot.

It had only taken about twenty-five minutes, but I felt like I'd been hanging out with her for hours.

"You _have_ to be a closet Belieber, Halpert. There's no other reason you thought of _Justin Bieber_ at ten-forty on a Thursday night without harboring a secret crush."

"Can it over there, Beesly," I warned through my own laughter. There was definitely a reason that I knew too much about Justin Bieber, but I shoved that knowledge down my throat and focused on the present instead of letting my past swallow me whole.

But as the wind whipped between us again, I suddenly had something to say.

"Hey, so, thirty-six hours? That's pretty awesome."

My hands were shoved in my pockets as I tried to compliment her. She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile and somehow, I saw that reaction coming from a mile away.

"Yeah, I...it's a lot harder than I thought it was going to be."

She kicked at the gravel and I knew everything she was feeling.

"How long has it been for you?"

She looked at me expectantly, like we were finally about to, like, open up to one another or something. But I wasn't there, and the silence that I let hang gave her the answer.

"I'm sorry. It's okay if you don't wanna tell me. That's private stuff."

"No," I interjected as she started staring at the ground again, "you're right. It is hard…I guess that's why you're supposed to have a sponsor or something. Have someone to talk to, I guess."

She snorted, and I looked over, genuinely curious, since we had kind of gone back to the dark and twisty.

"Sponsor just sounds so..._formal_."

I laughed then, too, because she was right.

"It is, isn't it? I mean, what exactly are you supposed to share, anyway? 'Hi, I'm Jim. I've been sober for seventy-four days, but that doesn't matter, because I died inside a long time ago?'"

I hadn't meant for it to slip out. Honest to god, I thought I had it locked down, but the word vomit spilled all over my shoes, and suddenly, I felt like a deer in her headlights.

She kept surprising me, though. Her eyes were wide and her lips parted in shock, for sure. But her next moves were slow and deliberate, delicate almost, as she closed her lips, recomposed her features, and took a breath. When she pulled out her phone, I was almost offended. But then she was handing it to me with a blank contact form.

Well, blank except for the fact that the first name said _Gumby_ and the last name said _Halpert_.

"Here. Put your number in. Maybe we can… I don't know, we can nark each other. We don't have to like, be _sponsors_, you know, I just... you _get_ it. I just mean…"

Carefully, I took the phone from her hands and plugged my cell in.

"No, no I...get it too. Narks. I like it."

And I did like it, the idea of maybe occasionally texting someone once in a while when everyone around me was giving me the sad eyes and I was sick of the sad eyes.

She texted me so that I had her number, and before I climbed in the car, I made sure that she could see herself in my phone as Pamcasso, which she rolled her eyes at _hard_.

Her apartment wasn't too far from Larisa's place, actually, and for some reason, I was pleased when I realized that she lived in a safer part of town instead of some rundown shithole.

I parked my car, and we both breathed loudly and sat in the quiet for a minute or two.

"Well, hey. I'll uh...I'll see you next week, right?" she asked, avoiding my eyes and fiddling with her fingers.

"Absolutely, Beesly. I think my palate is getting used to those shitty diner burgers."

She nodded, biting her lip as her lips curled into a smile.

She said a quiet, "Bye Jim," as she slid out of my car and shut the door, and I returned my own quiet, "Bye Pam." I watched her disappear inside, and as the lights in her unit lit up, I wondered briefly if the walls were covered in pencil drawings of the places around her.

My car smelled vaguely of coconuts, and I let my nostrils absorb the new smell all the way home. I laughed when I pulled into my own parking spot and saw a new text from Pamcasso: a screenshot of my contact in her phone. She had set the contact photo as Gumby.

But as soon as I was inside my room at Larisa's, I was nose deep in a bottle of lavender lotion, because I'd made enough forward progress tonight, and this kind of bottle really wasn't hurting anybody.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Jim_**

My phone was getting a hell of a lot of action as of late.

It's not like I was actually doing anything productive, anyway, but it was a nice distraction from the monotony of watching SpongeBob Squarepants in the middle of the afternoon.

I'd only known this girl for a couple of weeks, and while half of our meetings were just sarcastic banter, the timidness in her eyes and the way that she had stumbled over her words when she handed me her phone and said _We can nark each other _and _You get it _made me wonder if this was just a clever facade over a truly real cry for help.

But the next text was a picture message of said dead duck, and I almost felt bad for the grimacing laugh that split my cheeks.

I was in the middle of typing out a new message, my cheek muscles still aching from the abnormal amount of smiling that I'd been doing lately, when my phone was buzzing insistently in my hands. She was calling.

My body tensed, an apprehensive warm coursing through my veins as I tapped the green circle with my thumb and placed my phone to my ear. I was focused so much on wiping away my own sarcasm that I almost missed the whine in her voice as she said, without greeting, "I'm going to fucking kill him, Jim."

The tension melted a little, and I sat more fluidly in the corner of Larisa's living room couch, letting my muscles relax.

"Do you need help hiding the body?"

"Ugh. No. I know enough places. Although, he is quite tall. So, actually, yeah, I could definitely use your help carrying him to my car."

She laughed, and then I heard what sounded like a scraping sound and a soft _thud_ as if she was slinking to the ground to sit.

"So, rough day, huh, Beesly?"

"God, you could say that again," she sighed. "Would you believe me if I told you this wasn't the first time something like this has happened?"

"I mean, if you wouldn't have sent me a _picture_-which, thank you for that, by the way-I definitely wouldn't believe you."

"You'd think I was delusional."

"Hmm...maybe something along those lines," I chuckled. "So, what's this guy's deal anyway?"

I turned on the couch so that I was lying with my feet propped up opposite my head, and crossed my ankles as my hand wound behind my head to cradle it.

She took a deep breath before she spoke, and I caught myself smiling.

"His name is Dwight, but he'll introduce himself to you as _Dwight Kurt Schrute._ He owns a goddamn _beet farm, _Jim. I don't know. He's like...his own breed. Trust me, it's _so_ much easier if you just met him yourself."

"And he brought a dead duck into your office because…?"

"He found it on the side of the road. Waltzed right in with it, threw it onto my _desk_ and said, 'It was still fresh! We're having duck for lunch!' I shit you not, he looked like a kid on Christmas."

"And the axe…?"

"Oh. He has weapons stashed around the office. I found a pair of nunchucks under my desk last week," she replied calmly, as if she was telling me that the sun had risen in the east this morning.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, the laughter panging my lungs in a good way as it sputtered out.

"Nunchucks?"

"Mhm."

And I could picture her nodding with a tiny smile.

"Beesly, where the hell do you _work_?"

"Oh. Right. I'm a receptionist for Dunder Mifflin. I fucking sell paper, Jim."

We both broke at that point, my laughter spitting real attractively, and hers giggling out like twinkling Christmas lights.

"Hey, I think my friend Karen works there," I managed as we both calmed down.

"I don't think I know a Karen?" she asked more than said, like she was still combing her mind for information.

"Well, no, I mean, she works for their branch somewhere in Connecticut. We went to college together, and then she started working there right after…"

_Right after I kind of blew our company to shit _was on the edge of my tongue, but I didn't bother finishing because the static in my ear was overwhelming and Karen's face was now omnipresent in too many ways and too many places.

And then, she was there again, with, "So, do you think I should bring the duck leftovers to AA this week? We could post in the Facebook group that there's a potluck. What sides do you think go good with roadkill?"

I could hear it in her voice, the hesitance, because she was just so good at _knowing_, and I could picture the way that she was probably staring down at the ground as she tried to comfort me.

So I leaned right into it.

"Wait, AA has a Facebook page?"

"I mean, I'm just kind of assuming they do." I heard the rustle of fabric and pictured her shrugging. "Everything has a Facebook page nowadays. If you're really bored, Schrute Farms definitely has one, and the photo gallery is to _die_ for."

"Damn, Beesly, how much time at that job of yours do you spend on Facebook?"

"Way too much, actually. But it's mostly to watch those Tasty videos where they make orgasmic-looking recipes in about two minutes flat, and then I go home and try to recreate it and end up saying _fuck it_ and ordering a pizza instead."

We talked about nonsense for about five more minutes before she said that her break was ending, and then I was suddenly riddled with guilt for taking up her lunch time, but she was _Too nauseous to eat anyway, Jim. There's a dead duck on my desk, remember?_

After we hung up, I clicked on the AppStore and re-downloaded Facebook. My profile had long since been obliterated, so it was a little weird to start fresh with no friends, no profile picture, no real information. I kind of felt like a noob.

But I found _Schrute Farms_ in the quick _click-clack_ of my thumbs, and boy, was she right in the fact that I wouldn't be disappointed. The cover photo for the page was a dude with the squarest forehead I'd ever seen holding a pitchfork, and he had a goddamn beetroot between his teeth.

But just as I'd settled in for a good laugh, my phone was pinging yet again.

**_Pam_**

Texting Jim was actually kind of fun.

I had someone to talk to now. Someone who wasn't going ask me how I was doing, anyway. And in the late hours of the day, when I wasn't sitting behind a desk, and when the thoughts started creeping in again, I could reach for my phone instead of a bottle.

In a way, he was kind of my saving grace.

I didn't want to annoy him though, like some psycho, clingy chick. But he was texting me just as much as I was texting him, which made me feel better about the whole situation.

The last time I remembered being this antsy about five-o'clock was to run to a bar. Now, suddenly, I needed to hear the rest of this story, because he was opening up, and there was a little bit of light showing through a teeny-tiny Jim crack, and I was craving that small thread like I did alcohol.

I could barely focus on the restless bouncing of my knee, let alone work for another three hours. There were more than a few moments when I walked past Meredith with that look of intent in my eye, only to take a detour to the kitchen and guzzle down the entire pot of coffee. She came up to my desk at one point with a cocked eyebrow and a bottle rolled up her sleeve.

"Hey, you okay? You out again?"

It would have been so easy to say _Yes_, to slide her the fake memo folder that we had just for this case so that she could slip the bottle between the manila edges and into my hand. But I swallowed my pride and the lump in my throat and probably twitched as I said, "No, I think I'm good for now," and set to work on rearranging my file cabinet in alphabetical order just to keep my body from flinging itself into outer space.

My fingers were sliding over his contact before I was fully out the door.

"Wow, Beesly, it's like, four fifty-nine. You in a hurry or something?"

"Yeah, or something," I chuckled as I dug my car keys out of my purse.

"Any dead ducks today?"

"No dead ducks, but he did stand on top of his desk and shout through a bullhorn that he would be monitoring our emails to see if we were _fraternizing with the enemy_ after corporate came in to tell us that one of our branches would be closing and cuts would have to be made."

"A...bullhorn?"

"Couldn't make this shit up if I tried, Halpert."

The sound twitched in and out as my car turned on.

"Hold up, I didn't hear what you said. You were switching to my car's bluetooth."

"Well that explains the sudden headache. Warn me before you send me through airwaves next time, Beesly."

I chuckled, waiting on the edge of my seat as I clicked my belt into place.

"So. Are you, uh...ready for story time?"

I chewed on my fingernail, glancing quickly around the parking lot to see if anyone was around. As if any of my coworkers could hear into my car, or cared that I had a new friend.

But I wanted to keep him to myself, I decided, so as I double checked that my windows were rolled up, I said, "Actually, can you entertain me with something mindless for like, ten minutes? I want to be able to pay attention, to your...you know."

He was silent for a minute, before he was saying, "You want to be able to pay attention to my _you know_? Pam. What kind of story do you think this _is_?"

And then he was laughing, and I was laughing, and the joke kind of rolled on until my ass hit the couch, which was kind of perfect in a way.

"Alright. I think I'm ready," I said, tucking my feet underneath my butt as I settled in.

I heard him take a deep breath, heard the rustling of material in the background and pictured him adjusting his body, readjusting his body, as he prepared his heart to open up about whatever it was that was clearly eating at him.

"So...I _did_ have a job. Obviously. I'm not a bum." He paused then to chuckle nervously. "My friends and I, we started this sports marketing company back in college. It was kind of a pipe dream at first, but then it really started to take off. Like, we had guys like Joel Embiid and Rhys Hoskins on board."

He paused, but I could hear the cogs of wheels scratching together as he decided where to go next. It was hard to be patient, but I gave him his time.

"And then...all of..._this_ kind of started. And I just...stopped showing up. I was drinking _at_ work when I did…"

I wanted to jump in and console him and shout _Me too, I do it, too! _but he needed this, this venting time, and so I bit my lip and waited for him to keep going.

"To make a long story short…" _Don't make it short. Tell me everything._ "I blew a huge investment opportunity for us. The biggest, actually. We had a meeting with Under Armour, and basically, if they didn't sign, we were done. I was the lead man, because I was the face of the company. The brain behind it. It was, like, _my_ baby, and they sent me in to close the deal. But I had downed Jack for breakfast...had whiskey in my coffee mug all damn day long, and I...I blew it, Pam."

He let out a long, quiet breath. I had the urge to climb through my phone and swallow him in a hug. The fact that I couldn't was physically painful.

"I blew it. And my best friends from college had to sit me down right after...like, they didn't even wait a day...and they gave me the speech. You know, _the speech_?"

I nodded my head for too long before realizing that he couldn't see me, but he kept on anyways.

"The _Jim, we know you've gone through a lot, but you can't keep doing this, and we can't keep letting you do this_ speech. It...it…"

"Sucked?" I supplied, _needing_ to give my vocal chords some sort of productive exercise before they went off the wall.

"Yeah," he chuckled. "It sucked."

He blew out another breath, but this one wasn't exhausted or damaged, more like a new supply of wind before he got going again.

"The VP ended up swooping in and salvaging the company with Under Armour, but they told me to take a leave of absence. And I, uh...I just...never went back."

_Never went back _thrummed against my temples, as flashes of my own _point of no return_ hit like a strobe light, but he pulled me to the surface again with a chuckle and, "And _that_ is why texting you is like my full-time job."

There were so many things I wanted to jump in and say. A lot of it was to the tune of _I'm so sorry, Jim_, but I knew he didn't want that or need it.

Because I myself couldn't stand the _I'm sorry's _and the _Wow, that's too bad's._ They sucked in their own degree.

"Wow, too bad you don't get paid for it," I offered, a shy smile creeping into my words. "I'm surprised your thumbs haven't fallen off yet."

"Oh, can it over there, miss _Sends A Million Emojis Per Conversation._"

"You love it."

"Eh. Debatable. Oh, hey wait." His words were softer now. "You said you were having car problems. Did you, uh...did you need a ride, or something this week? I can pick you up, you know, if you needed me to."

"That's really sweet," I started, already pissed off at myself for the walls I was about to set up, "but, uh, you talked to me while I drove home today, Jim."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, you're right, I did. So, everything's...okay?"

"Everything's about as good as it's going to be. But I'll call your Cash Cab if she dies on me again."

The laughter was a good break in the conversation, and eventually his sister was home and he was going to help her with dinner, which made me kind of sad in a way, because I selfishly wanted to keep him on the line.

"Hey, uh...listen, thanks for...thanks for listening, Pam."

"Anytime." And I knew he could hear the soft smile on the other end of the line as we hung up.

* * *

AA was moderately mild. I kept my jokes to myself, and Jim didn't say anything, because that was his own prerogative, and everyone seemed to respect him.

We were both a little surprised when Rosie behind the counter of the diner greeted us that night and asked, "Y'all want the usual?"

We nodded like two stunned idiots as she disappeared to shout our orders to the cook.

"Wow. The last time I had a _usual_, I'm pretty sure it was seventy-percent alcohol," Jim said ominously as Rosie slid him a Coke.

I nodded in agreement, waiting on the edge of what I really wanted to say as burgers sizzled to the grill somewhere in the background.

"Hey, so...about your job."

I could feel him tense without having to look to my left.

"I, uh...we have a sales position opening up. We have this temp that my boss has been looking to replace as all of this 'branch closing' bullshit is going down. He wants someone more permanent so that our branch looks stronger, you know…"

His shoulders dropped a bit from their heightened state, and the lines in his forehead smoothed out.

"What I'm saying is, if you're, you know, looking, I could...I could put in a good word for you."

I turned to look at him, and his eyes were grateful as he tried to smile.

Rosie slid two hot plates in front of us as he let my words digest. His burger was half gone when he finally said, "You know what? Do it. I think...yeah. Tell your boss I'm interested."

"Really?"

"Really."

He smiled around a french fry, and I smiled back, the warm and fuzzy feeling stemming from something that wasn't forty-proof.

I followed him to the park this time and let the warm air hug me as we talked about everything that didn't cut deeper than the surface, which was a lot of NBA predictions and talk about the weather. But I was content. More than content.

And then his phone rang.

I brushed it off, figuring it was his sister, but when he answered with, "Hey, Karen," and held up a finger to _me_ because apparently he had to take this call, my body was suddenly cold, and my fingers were itching to be around a bottle again for the first time in about a week.

My body was so tense that the pressure in my ears pushed out his end of the conversation, and when he slid his phone into his pocket and said something like, "Sorry, that was just my friend Karen. She's coming to visit next weekend and wanted to make plans," I could feel myself nodding mechanically, suggesting that we head back to our cars because it was _getting late_ and I _had work in the morning._

"Alright, Beesly, I get it," he chuckled, "I'll fill out an application tomorrow."

But I wasn't in the mood for jokes anymore, and almost felt bad that my goodbye was more robotic than sentimental.

I was in my freezer before I had turned the kitchen lights on.

I was only going to take the cap off for a sniff, really. Just to sense what I had been missing.

But once the cap was off, my lips had their own agenda, and a shot's worth was coursing through my system.

Because I let myself get too close to Jim Halpert. But he had a _Karen_ somewhere who wanted to check on him, too. And this Karen probably didn't have a couple of AA meetings under her belt, and a boatload of baggage behind her. I didn't let myself get close anymore for a reason. There was absolutely no way he could ever have those feelings for me, because when I looked at myself in the mirror, after everything I had been through, I didn't even want my_self _most days. So why would Jim?

As I let the tequila wash away any desires I had building inside of me, my phone pinged, and I downed an extra shot to wash away every implication that went with it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Trigger Warning: Flashback scenes of sexual assault occur later on in this chapter.**

_**Jim**_

I was doing well for myself, in my own humble opinion.

I mean, I wasn't making _great strides_ or whatever, but I _kind of_ had a social life, if you could call it that, which I definitely was, seeing as how things had been going for me lately. I wasn't ignoring _every_ phone call. Karen was coming into town, and we were going to grab dinner with Larisa before...well before the weekend of torture reigned down upon me. I filled out an online job application at Dunder Mifflin, and the manager had called me back right away. He sounded pretty eccentric, but I had already been warned, and honestly, I was probably due for some sort of change that wasn't a new episode of _Modern Family._

And, really, I owed all of it to Pam.

She was the reason that I wasn't wallowing anymore. The reason that the wheels of my derailed train were doing something to at least find a track again. I didn't know why. Maybe it was the fact that we had some sort of shared trauma, or that she had made jokes during her first meeting at AA. Maybe it was because she didn't look at me like I was some sad, sick puppy who needed to be pet, and because she sat and ate crappy diner burgers with me instead.

Maybe it was because, when I thought about all of the people in my life who were trying to _help me through it_, she was the only one who understood that some days, you just _couldn't_.

She was the light in my little bubble of darkness, and for the first time in about a year, I wasn't trying to snuff it out.

But something had been kind of off lately.

Our random text conversations had sort of slowed down, and although I wasn't necessarily a _social bug_ or anything, _she_ definitely was, in our own little net. The fact that I wasn't getting long strings of emojis in the middle of the afternoon was a little worrisome.

And honestly, I did not need anymore drama this weekend. I didn't need my constant to suddenly become a variable. I was already dreading every single implication that this weekend brought, with people coming into town and everyone wanting to see me; Karen was lucky enough that she was my first step in this process. And the only constant that I had, the one that didn't give me sad eyes and knew when to hold back and texted me stupid memes when I was getting too close to the edge was _Pam_.

The fact that she was acting kind of distant all of a sudden didn't bode well for either of us.

I needed the distractions, and was being entirely selfish in my want for her stupid cat memes and gifs of babies getting cheese flung at their faces. I needed my mind to be somewhere else, and she had been that place lately.

I was actually looking forward to AA this week, because she was the only thing that crossed my mind when I thought about _calming down_and _staying level for five minutes _before all hell broke loose. But when my text on Thursday afternoon went unanswered, and when she wasn't in the seat next to me when the meeting began, I could feel my pulse quickening, my knee drumming beneath the elbow that was resting on top of it.

We went through _Donny, I've been sober for one-hundred and four days_ and _Rachel, sober for ninety-two,_ and _Sabrina, today is my three year anniversary_ before the doors to the gym pushed open abruptly, and the back of my neck grew hot with knowledge before I even turned around.

The _clod-clod-clod_ of her Converse reminded me of doing suicides on a basketball court, her steps heavy with the weight of probably a thousand different things.

Or, maybe, just one.

She came quickly across the gym floor, but in all of my practice, I could see her stumbling as she fell into the seat beside me.

What overcame me first was the smell. She had definitely tangoed with Jose Cuervo at some point today. Maybe an hour ago. Maybe in the parking lot. I had fleeting images of how the hell she actually got here in the first place, but then her eyes had me drowning.

Underneath all of the redness and dilation was a hurt that I knew all too well.

She had been crying, or fighting tears, and even now, as her entire body slumped into the uncomfortable metal, I could see liquid dying her lash lines and threatening to spill over.

All eyes were on her, which I'm sure was not the plan, but honestly, when alcohol was in the driver's seat, plans were always thrown out the window.

"Sorry 'm late," she mumbled, raising a hand limply, like it was being pulled and let down by a puppet string. I gulped, halfway leaned in her direction to ask if she was okay when she started up again.

"Um, fuck, what's this s'pposed to start like? Right. Hi, 'm Pam. I am _not_ sober."

She laughed then, a big hearty laugh, like she was surprising herself. A lot of people around us looked uncomfortable.

"_But_, in case anyone was wondering, the tequila in my freezer still works!"

The smile on her face was manic, so unlike the Pam that I had gotten to know, and it made me scared for her, my gut churning with every second that I didn't just reach out and take her away from this place.

She brushed off the few people who tried to reach out, even Noah when he asked if there was anything that he could do, but she was off in her own world, her head cocked back on the chair, lulling uncomfortably.

I couldn't concentrate on the other testimonies, as my body itched to take her hand, to know why she had snapped all of a sudden. But it seemed like the wrong place to do that, to interrupt everyone else. I didn't know the protocol. Usually when people stumbled in here already drunk, they broke down and let our sponsors console them, or they stumbled right back out the door because alcoholics anonymous was the _last_ place they wanted to be.

"Hi, I'm Susan. I've been sober for eighty-four days now. Gosh, has it been a tough road, but you know what? I'm so glad for every step of this journey. I wouldn't have made it without the people in this circle-"

"Hey. Susan."

I froze immediately as her alcohol drenched words started to pour.

"Listen. Susan. I'm like...I'm _happy_ for you, Susan. But like...what's the _point_?"

All eyes were on her again, including mine. But while everyone else was sad and pitying and maybe even hesitant, I was genuinely hurting, scared for the road she was heading down.

"Like, the road is hard because the reasons we're all here in the first place fuckin' _suck_. Why are _you_ here, Susan? What's your story?"

Poor Susan looked genuinely shocked, as her moment of peace and perseverance was shattered by the bullet of Pam's sudden accusations; I could see the ghosts swimming in Susan's eyes.

"It pro'ly ain't as bad as mine, Susan." She was making that _tsk tsk _noise, like she was trying to grill poor Susan to the chair across the circle. "Because, sometimes, _you_ put yourself here. But _sometimes_, other people put you here."

My heart was pounding, the sweat on my forehead slipping down the side of my neck.

She stood on unsteady feet, shook an unsteady finger across the circle.

"_Sometimes_, Susan, when other people take your _life_, they take it with their _big, meaty hands_ and _crack it_, Susan, and you just have to stick your head under a tap. You know?"

She wasn't speaking any longer. She was spitting words past her lips, the venom in every single syllable apparent to everyone there as her voice continued to rise.

"Because sometimes, you just. Can't. Handle it anymore. Thinkin' about how he _took. Everything_. And turned it upside-fucking-_down_ on _your_ head. How he basically got off scott-fucking-free, while you _si'_ here, every day, not wanting to get up sometimes. And that's jus' not fair, Susan. It's just. Not. _Fair_."

She wasn't talking to Susan anymore, and I started to realize that maybe, she hadn't been the entire time, that poor Susan was just the catalyst.

But she was up and in the middle of the circle now, her arm still poised halfway in the air, pointing to the floor at Susan's feet, her body beginning to crumple over at the waist as her other arm clutched around it.

"It's not fair. It's not _fair_. It's _not fair!_"

And by the time her screams were ping-ponging off the rafters and back into my ears, I had my arms around her from behind and her body pulled into me. She shook with tears, with anger, with _It's not fair! _She thrashed and kicked wildly against me, eventually losing steam as she turned into a slumping surrender of airy whines that echoed eerily off the gymnasium ceiling.

My wide eyes searched the circle, and though my expression was probably screaming for help, I knew she didn't need that, didn't need dozens of people bumrushing her right now.

She needed _me_.

I didn't want to drag her out of there by her feet. A tiny wave of relief lapped my toes when I knelt to wrap my arm underneath her knees, to cradle her against me as I backed my way slowly and carefully out of the gym.

By the time I got her outside, stood her on her own two feet again, the rage was popping in veins on her forehead.

"What are you _doing_? I was _fine_. I was _fine_, Jim. I wanted to, I wan'ed to _stay in there_. Why'd you take me out? _Why_?"

I let her yell, let her scream my name and pummel her tiny fists into my chest, let her face run red and let her eyes pop out of her head. I took the brunt of her anger because she _needed to do it_. The tears in my eyes were for her, for whatever it was, whoever _he_ was, that did this to her, that took this woman and turned her into someone who was falling apart at the seams.

She grit her teeth with every weak hit, was grunting and whining every time her body flailed, weaker and weaker with every thrust.

"I..just...want it...to go...away."

Every word, punctuated with a hit, with a cry, with more tears in her eyes. I absorbed every single one, but on the last of her revelations, I took it straight to my core.

I grabbed both of her small fists in the palm of one hand and tugged her to my chest, my other hand cradling her cheek as I forced her to look at me.

"Hey. I know. I know. I do too, Pam. I want it to go away, too."

I watched the wave of anger in her eyes bow, break, and wash up and over in a sadness that I'm sure was both painful and welcoming, as the tears flooded and she collapsed against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her tightly then, letting it hit me as I mumbled, "I want it to go away, too," into her hair.

I held her there for a long time, letting her cry and hold on as it all eventually turned into hiccups and I convinced her to let me drive her home. She was silent for most of the ride, and I'm glad that our first meeting had been sober, that I had been to her place since then, because she wouldn't have been able to get me there herself.

My heart was pounding, my chest tight with the need to make sure she was okay, to be her protector. So when we pulled up outside her apartment, I dug her keys out and carried her to the elevator, down the hallway, through the goddamn door myself.

When she realized that we were inside of her apartment, she stumbled immediately to the kitchen with her shoes still on, one hand wiping haphazardly at her eyes as she dragged her feet straight to the counter where I saw the telltale shadow of a tall bottle.

I followed her quickly, realizing the fight I was in for as soon as I prepared myself to take that bottle from her hands. I'd been in that fight before.

I backhanded my brother once over the last wine cooler in my parent's fridge, and he hasn't spoken to me since.

I huffed as I strode across her apartment, my arm already outstretched as she poised the quarter-full bottle of tequila to her lips. My fingers wrapped around it, wrapped around _hers_. I was expecting more anger, more shouting and hitting, more purple in her face.

I wasn't expecting the whimper.

The little cry at the back of her throat.

The way her fingers gripped the bottle weakly underneath my own as her eyes clicked into place with mine.

"Please, Jim," she cried, and I almost broke, almost pushed it against her lips. Because her eyes were tearing me apart. Behind the swollen pupils and the veiny lines, she just wanted it to all go away.

I knew exactly how she felt, how _that bottle _would take it all and make do _exactly that_, if only for a little while. But I knew that the afterwords would be devastating, that she had been doing so well, that she would hate herself in the morning.

And, somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought that I could be better than the bottle for her. That_ I _could make it all go away. That I could sit with her tonight, and hold her through the hangover, and squeeze out every drop of tequila until she was _Pam_ again.

"I jus...I wanna forget _all of it,_ Jim. I can't...I'm not gonna make it to June 10th. I can't...I can't make it to June 10th, Jim. I'm not...I can't do it..."

I took the bottle from her hand then, forcefully stealing it from her grip in a way that made the tequila slosh up the sides of the bottle, threatening to spill out. And we couldn't have that.

Because the rest of that bottle was burning down my throat before she could even complain.

Because she was standing here, crying about _Not making it to June 10th,_ and it was everything that was echoing in my own head, my own worries about not making it to my own June 10th _literally_ screaming in my face.

I held eye contact with her as I downed the bottle, feeling my eyes surging, the tendons in my neck pulsing as I drained every last drop, as I screamed for more, as I tried to suck alcohol out of thin air. I would have licked the walls of that bottle if I could.

I couldn't tell if her grimace was for her own pain or for driving me over the edge, but as I myself cracked, as I slammed the empty bottle to the countertop and felt my forehead crease and bit my lip until I'm sure it was bleeding, my pouring tears were the last worry on my mind.

I needed an anchor. And she was it.

I pulled her against me, and I couldn't really tell if I was holding her up or if she was holding me up, but one thing was for certain, and that was that without each other in the middle of that kitchen, we both would've fallen right through the floor.

I don't remember making it to the bedroom, don't remember pulling down the sheets or hugging her to me so tightly that her face was imprinted by the zipper on my hoodie, but I couldn't let her go, or I would spiral. The way her arms overlapped behind my back in a death grip said the same, otherwise.

I didn't want to fall asleep. I wanted to focus on the biting of her body pressed into mine, on her knees weaved between my legs and her elbows pressed into my gut, and her tears soaking the front of my shirt.

I didn't want to close my eyes and see my own _June 10th_ in a cataclysmic explosion.

So I bit through the drug in my system that screamed _depressant_ as it tried to lure me down, down, down. I buried my nostrils into coconuts and let purple flowers fester in the bottom of my sister's bathroom cabinet.

I focused on her breathing, the quickness of the air in and out against my chest, the sharp rise and fall as it eventually slowed. And when she was finally asleep, I let the feel of her soft curls push against my face and against my neck. I felt her pulse against my back where her wrists still held on for dear life. I let her eyelids flutter against me, let them jolt me awake every time the demons tried to pull me under.

As soon as my own breathing was finally settling down, when I was getting to that point where the alcohol was all sweat out, and my body was plateauing into a zombie-like numbness, she started twitching. And I knew before she even opened her eyes.

I hauled her up into my lap and carried her into the bathroom, watching _her_ demons fall into the toilet as I wrapped her curls into a loose ponytail behind her head.

I sat behind her as she sat on her haunches, her body limply hanging over the toilet as the toxicity came up her throat and expelled from her body. I stroked her hair, just like Larisa had done for me, remembering that it was _that_ feeling that kept me from banging my head on the porcelain to knock myself out before I burned my throat raw.

I rubbed the knot in her back where her shoulder blades met with my other hand, making soft circular motions with my thumb. When she slumped forward, I caught her, grabbed a towel from the bathroom counter, and pulled her back against my front. I felt her body collapse against me like dead weight, and as her cheek turned to lay against my chest, I wanted to find whoever _he_ was and deck him into June 10th of the year 3000.

Perched on my knees, her hands fell to my thighs, flexing in and out like she wanted something to hold onto.

I bent my lips to her ear and whispered, "Hey, are you...is it all out?" until I felt the weak nod of her head, heard a tiny mewl that was some semblance of affirmation, and cradled her in my arms back to bed.

After I tucked her under the covers, I went to the kitchen, putting blinders on as I fudged around for a glass that I quickly filled with water that got all over the place because eighty-percent of my game plan right now was to avoid that tequila bottle.

She was sitting up, perched limply but alertly on the edge of the bed when I returned. Her lip was quivering, and I slid the glass along her bedside table as I reached to pick her up again, to carry her back to the bathroom, but her hand flopped against my chest, and she squeaked out, "_No_."

When I looked down, her eyes were pinched shut, and her mouth was pulled open in a silent cry as she fell against me.

I just held her, and when her grip loosened the tiniest bit, I grabbed the glass of water, told her, "Here, you really need to drink," and helped her until the glass was mostly empty.

The clock mocked me with some ungodly number, and I pulled the sheets down to tuck her under, following her on the opposite side.

We didn't touch this time, didn't cuddle or hold hands. It wasn't that I didn't want to, and I don't think that was her prerogative either, but I could feel a charge between our hands in the middle of the bed. And I waited.

I waited while the fan spun around in slow circles on her ceiling above us. I waited as the wind blew in slow waves, brushing tree branches like paint brushes against the side of the building. I heard cars go by, some more quickly than others.

And then I heard her voice, buried underneath it all.

"I was engaged. For a long time, actually. His name was Roy. We were high school...well, we weren't sweethearts, I'll tell you that much. But we were engaged for nine years. Nine years, and he finally set a date to _get me to stop bitching. _He picked June 10th because it was a Sunday, and Sunday weddings are _cheaper_."

She hadn't even scratched the surface, and I already wanted to throat punch this _Roy_.

"So, last year, on June 10th, I woke up with every intention of getting married. You know? I got into my sister's car, and we met the rest of my bridesmaids at the church to get ready and everything. His sister was doing my hair and makeup as a wedding gift, even though she could only do braid up-do's and I hate braids."

Her hands were fidgeting nervously, tapping quickly against the sheets. I wanted to reach over and steady her hand, squeeze it between mine so that she knew I was here.

"I was in my dress, with my hair done like some high school girl at the prom, and my eyeshadow was a little obnoxious, but in a matter of hours, the only man I'd ever known would be my _husband_. I would be Mrs. Roy Anderson. And I got a little nervous, as I'm sure a lot of women in that position often do."

The drumming fingers were gone, and if I looked closely enough, peeled my eyes to the side far enough, I could see her fidgeting with the bare finger on her left hand, the one that hadn't been naked for almost a decade.

"I was a little nervous, so I took a walk. I wanted to calm down. I wanted to remind myself that my future was waiting at the end of this day, that this is what I had been waiting for. At the end of the day, I would be a wife. And the stupid little house we lived in together would finally be our family home. So I took a walk. I took a walk, and when I heard the noises muffled by a doorway, I pushed it open. I never should've pushed it open."

Her voice tailed off, so that _pushed it open _was a whisper, just like the ghost of her hand releasing the doorknob from its latch.

"He was in his wedding tuxedo. That was what threw me off the most. Not that he was cheating on me. Not that I was watching one of my bridesmaids get fucked by my would-be husband, with the bridesmaid's dress that I had picked out bunched up over her head. She was one of his friends, anyway. I...didn't have enough girlfriends to walk with all of his football buddies, so she was...I didn't know her real well, anyway."

The blood in my veins was pulsating. I was surprised that she hadn't pushed the sheets off of her because she was getting too hot.

"If I wouldn't have opened that door, and caught him in the middle of his pre-wedding fuck, he would have walked down the aisle in that tuxedo, slid a ring onto my finger with hands that had just been in and on some other woman, and said _I do_. That's what irked me the most, really. That he did it in his wedding tux."

I was itching to pull her to me, because this was the end of it, right? This was the reason for her drinking, the pain in her eyes. It was over and done with. But then, she kept talking.

"I ran out of the room, and ran...right into my boss, actually."

She chuckled at the memory, and I was grateful for that little break, because otherwise, I was afraid she was going to snap into pieces.

"He was...he wanted to be part of the wedding and I guess he was trying to find me for one last plea or something. But instead, he drove me home. I made him drive me home, because having to find my sister, or my cousin, or my best friend and tell them what he had done? I couldn't do that. So I made Michael drive me home. Back to our shitty house with the shitty furniture. I sat in the middle of our bed with my wedding dress on for hours, and I tried to cry, I _really_ did, but I just felt dead inside, you know? Like, I think I was more upset about trying to piece together the last fifteen years of my life. And then, there he was."

She didn't have to keep talking. Didn't have to tell me, because the deadness in her voice said it all. I would have gladly taken her up right there, held her and squeezed her until this _Roy Anderson bastard _was crushed into oblivion. But she kept going. And my heart literally shattered inside my chest.

"I think...I think Michael was outside making a phone call or something. Telling my mom where I was. I don't really remember. But he was standing in the doorway. And I could just _smell_ the alcohol on his body."

_God, please stop. Don't say it. You don't have to say it. _

"He was always rowdy when he was drunk. Always handsy."

_You don't have to tell me._

"I got into the habit of sleeping in the guest room when he went out with his friends."

_Because once I know,_

"He was always so much bigger than me."

_I'm going to kill him._

"And by the time I could scream, he was already mumbling stupid, stupid shit into my ear, closing a hand over my mouth."

_I'm going to find him,_

_"__Pammy, don't do this. Pammy, I love you."_

_and I'm going to kill him._

_"__Pammy, just fucking remember what I can give you. I'm all you've got, Pammy. You really think you can do better than this?"_

The tears were thick in her throat, and I couldn't do anything. Couldn't reach across and hold her and remind her that he was gone. I had to let her do this.

"I tried to push him off, but eventually he had his pants down, and he was shoving my stupid white dress over my head. My...my hands were caught above my head. Both of my hands in one of his. Like I was a child."

I was having a panic attack of my own, the pulsing in my veins visible under the darkness of night, under the sheets in her bedroom that I gripped like death.

"I could...feel him, even though I was crossing my legs as tightly as I could. I could feel his fat fingers pressing into me in all of these places that I just didn't want him to be. I was yelling even though I knew that my dress was probably muffling anything I said. He...ripped a hole in my underwear. I pushed, and I kicked, and I honest to God saw my life flash before my eyes. He kept talking, kept saying things like _I'm the best you've got, Pammy _and _Just fucking open up, you little bitch._"

The tears were dripping down my sides, soaking her bed to the bone as I gritted my teeth.

"And somehow, by the grace of God, I twisted my legs up, and kicked at his chest with my heels over, and over, and over."

_Over and over and over._

"Over, and over, and over, until Michael was in the doorway, and pulling him off of me."

I couldn't even breathe in relief, because she was still cowering in a bed next to me, still so fragile and broken, with a life that was ruined because of that son of a bitch.

But she was breathing, long and low, pushing a steady breeze in the otherwise poisoned air. When she was finally still, when it was clear that she wasn't going to say anymore, my hand darted across the sheets until it found hers, and I squeezed hard enough for my touch to say _I'm here, and I'm so, so sorry. _

She squeezed back, and as soon as she gave me that affirmation, I turned on my side, and gathered her against me, touched my forehead to hers as I held her around the waist, as I lay my palm to her back to possess her in a way that said _I'm not letting you go_.

Tears dripped down my nose and into her space, but she was clutching my shirt and pushing her body against me like she wanted to crawl inside and hide, and I wasn't about to deny her that. I would be that safe place for her.

I reached up to take away her tears with my thumb, and opened my mouth to say something. All I could utter were the noises that had been building ever since she started talking.

"I…" My fingers traced up and down her biceps, trying to find somewhere to latch onto. But suddenly, her index finger was shaking against my lip, and I could see the pleading in her eyes as she spoke again.

"We don't...you don't have to...just...be here when I wake up, okay?"

Her eyes said so much more than her words did; they screamed _Don't let me fall,_ and _I can't stay afloat,_ and _Don't leave me here, Jim._

So I didn't.

I held onto her so tightly that her bones would break. But that wasn't enough, because her head just kept nuzzling against my chest and her arms just kept winding their way around my body.

I tucked her under my chin, under my hands, against my heart, to remind her that there was still a life beating inside of her.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Pam_**

I fucked up royally.

The first thought, before I'd even opened my eyes, was how much I had just steamrolled my entire life into the ground.

For one thing, AA Jim was in my bed. Again.

And this time, it wasn't even after he'd bought me dinner and stripped me down afterward.

It was so much worse.

Because I had opened up in a way that was a thousand times more damaging.

He knew now.

There was no taking it back. No stopping him from asking a thousand questions and giving me those sad, pitying, eyes, the eyes that stopped looking for _you_ and instead searched for all of the broken pieces to tiptoe around.

After all this time, I thought I was done with that. Or, at least, I was learning to set my life up to avoid it-the pity from people, the people who stopped being themselves around you because now they had to take precautions. But now, my little net of safety in Jim had been thrown into the deep end, and there was no taking it back.

He had me strapped so tightly to his chest that it made me wonder if he was awake and just trying to hold on, but one quick shift of my eyes told me that his were still closed, probably dreaming and formulating exactly how to navigate me when they finally fluttered open.

I thought about weaseling away again, about kicking my way from the spider web of limbs that he had tangled in and around me. But for some reason, as I tried to maneuver my arms to push him away, they pulled him closer. When I tried to kick my legs to put distance between us, they wrapped around his thighs more, lost underneath the sheets, and did the exact opposite.

Even when I did my best to turn my head in the opposite direction, to look at something other than the face that had yet to pass judgement, I couldn't do it.

Maybe I just wanted one more moment of seeing peace in him before my only friggen foundation shattered. I don't know.

But while my consciousness was doing everything in its power to push him away, the rest of me was clinging to false hope with every inch of my body.

He was warm, and solid, and for some reason, I was burying my nose in his shoulder and doing my best to memorize the feel of his cotton t-shirt and the tempo of his breathing. Maybe it would be something I could hold onto in the future when I needed to stop and count to ten.

When I felt him start to stir beneath me, my entire body froze. There was a fight or flight battle going on as my mind played out the scene of me barrel rolling out of his arms and taking off until I hit the border to New Jersey. But for some reason, with liquid nitrogen making my muscles clench in place, I was stuck.

I felt his chest expand on a sharp inhale of his waking breath, felt his arms tighten around me like a reflex, felt his chin tip down as he no doubt tried to find my eyes, to see if I was awake.

To find all of the cracks, I'm sure.

But I was prepared for that, at least, and I buried my nose into his chest. It was supposed to hide me, a defense mechanism, really. So then why in the hell was I closing my eyes, breathing deeply against him, and wanting to stay?

But eventually, I was caught. He wasn't prying, like I thought he would be. Instead of a "Hey, how are you doing?" or "Are you okay?" with the sad puppy dog eyes, he grumbled and stretched his legs out beneath me, and it took everything in my power to shove down just how delicious it felt as his thigh muscles flexed beneath my toes and the soft hair on his legs brushed against my skin.

And then he said, "Ugh, what time is it?" and moved one of his big hands from where it clung to my back to wipe down his face from top to bottom. I didn't want to admit it, but my skin felt cold where he'd left.

"Uh…" I said, my own voice thick with sleep as I rolled over to reach for my phone, leaving a trail of chills as I peeled away from his body. "7:47."

"And that's A.M.?" he clarified.

"A.M.," I confirmed, my eyebrows cocking as I let out a breathy giggle.

"Fuck that noise," he grumbled. He took my comforter in one hand and pulled it over his head and mine. Once we were shielded from the rest of the judgmental world, he wrapped the other arm around me, and I pretended not to hear his little contented sigh, pretended not to have one of my own.

The next time we woke, his head was buried in the pillow next to mine, and my stomach was less churny about what he would say, because after he let out a strangled groan, he said, "Are you hungry? I'm hungry," and food was way less threatening than facing my fears.

I didn't have an extra toothbrush, and I felt bad when I got to change into fresh clothes and there were still noticeable wrinkles in his from where I'd wrapped my arms around him all night, but he didn't seem to mind the taste of my mouthwash, and his bedhead combed out pretty easily when everything was said and done.

When we both stumbled into the kitchen, the light poured in a blinding white, making the empty bottle of tequila twinkle in taunting patterns off the tile floor. I felt bile creeping up as I watched the tiny rainbows of light cascade in abstract patterns that teased and mocked. But then, as panic started to wrap its clutches around my throat, those stupid dancing lights disappeared behind Jim's strong hand.

He rolled the bottle back and forth once, twice, and then effortlessly rolled it off his fingertips. It hit the bottom of my trash can with a hollow _thud_ that made my breath catch and my eyes close for a moment.

When I opened them again, his lips were curled into the smallest of reassuring grins; the curt nod of his head said _And that's that._

The diner was different in the light of day. The French toast definitely gave the burgers a run for their money. He didn't ask me if I was okay, didn't ask if I wanted to _Talk about it more_, didn't tell me he was _so sorry_. I saw a little bit of timidness in his eyes, but it wasn't because he was tiptoeing around me. For a minute, I almost wondered if he was going over the details or something, trying to think of what to say about the whole situation. But he never did.

He _did_ talk about basketball, though.

"Alright, Beesly. The Raptors are up 2-1. What happens tonight in the Oracle?"

I wasn't sure if I was more indulging him or pulling the security blanket that he offered more tightly around myself, but I took the bait anyway.

"Oh. Toronto takes Game 4 easily."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow and took a long sip of his coffee. "Golden State is home, and there's a very strong chance that KD and Klay Thompson are both back tonight."

"While you make several valid points," I began, pushing a bite of French toast around a drying pile of syrup, "have you actually been paying attention to the numbers that Kawhi has been putting up? I just don't see the addition of two more meat heads making that much of a difference for the Warriors. And besides, Game 2 was close enough that Toronto could've easily taken it. Plus, Game 3 was a total wash. I just don't see KD and Klay coming back strongly enough."

His eyebrows rose as his jaw fell in this little half smile that I was kicking myself for calling cute. He pushed a short, breathy laugh from his nose, and as he dropped and shook his head, his hand came up to rub the back of his neck.

"You're killin' me, Beesly," he chuckled.

It was natural for us to wind up at Nay Aug Park, to walk the trails and shoot shit for awhile. The trees were prettier in the daylight, anyway.

We ended up at the end of a dingy pier in mirrored positions with our feet dangling and our hands perched backwards on the edge. We were silent for awhile, just basking in the early afternoon sunlight, before he spoke.

"It wasn't your fault. What happened to you," he clarified, as if I could possibly think that he was talking about the cloud that came in and shielded the sun, or the fact that the cook this morning had made his eggs sunny side up instead of scrambled. "It wasn't your fault."

I stared out at the water tossing it over. There had been plenty of words that I'd absorbed over the past three-hundred-sixty-three days. Mostly _I'm sorry_ or _What can I do to help?_ A lot of the messages, though, I got from the way people looked at me. Pityingly. Sadly. Mostly like they just didn't know what to say. I mean, what _did_ you say to someone who's fiance had cheated on her right before the wedding, who had been violated so terribly by someone she had known for her entire life?

I didn't blame them.

But somehow, staring out over the calm water, Jim had pieced together a string of words that I'd never heard before.

_It's not your fault._

I wanted to sit and dissect it, wanted to pull the words out of my head and lay them out on the floor and rearrange them and wrap them around me.

But then, he put his hand in the little bit of space between us, against the wood of the pier that was chipped and peeling in different places. Kind of like him. Kind of like me.

And he waited. Waited for me. He didn't glance over to see my reaction. Didn't pull his hand away awkwardly when I didn't immediately grab on, and cough into it and rub the back of his neck like I'd come to know was his nervous tick. He waited, palm up, staring out at the sun that hung over the water.

And when I finally realized that there was no pressure in this space, no judgement, no blame, I snaked mine between us and put as much thanks as I could into the squeeze of my palm against his.

It wasn't a lover's embrace by any means of the gesture. But at the same time, I wasn't sad at that notion. My hand in his was different than _sparks and fireworks_. It was him sitting next to me, reassuring me of his presence. It was his way of showing me that, despite what I'd told him, despite now knowing where I came from, he was still going to stand by me, stand with me, as I walked ahead. And that meant so much more.

We sat there for awhile, on the edge of the pier, with our legs swinging freely and our skin soaking up the hot sun. The sounds of dogs barking, and children laughing, and fishing lures breaking the surface of the water all played as a background to his breathing, and the steady beat of his heart, and his simple words that continued echoing in my head.

The stillness was nice. It wasn't something I was accustomed to lately without going stir crazy, because still and stir crazy usually led me straight to a bottle. But this was nice. Being in the sun, letting my body absorb the vitamin D that I'd deprived it of. I could feel different parts of my body waking, the creaking and cracking, peeking around the corner to see if the _old Pam was here to stay_ or if this was going to just turn into another relapse.

For now, I was content to be here. The clamminess of my hand in his, the sweat dripping down my back and down my neck and behind my knee, the wood cutting into my thighs, the blinding rays of the sun, weren't uncomfortable. I welcomed them, reminding myself of what it felt like to be alive in this world.

Eventually, though, I had to shift my legs, unlodging a splinter of wood that had become annoyingly wedged into my skin, and the magical spell was broken. I slipped my hand from his at the same time that he stretched his own legs, and I noticed for the first time just how long they were, as they seemed to wind out past the horizon while my pale legs stopped short at my dirty pair of shoes.

I needed to get to the outlet mall soon.

When we stood and stretched, it was easy to think that we would both be washed with a blanket of awkwardness. But at the same time, I wasn't surprised when I looked up at him and his small smile matched mine.

The drive back to my place was quiet in the good way. He put the radio on and we sang goofily to a few songs, but eventually he was focused on the road and I was staring out the window at the sun bouncing off the sidewalks and the trees. When he pulled into my driveway, I realized suddenly that I really didn't want him to go.

"Hey, so, I uhm...did you want to maybe...watch the game here later? I'd say we should hit up a sports bar but…"

I chuckled at my own awkward joke, staring into my lap as I threaded and unthreaded my fingers. When I looked over to read him, he was doing the arm behind the neck thing, and I could feel my cheeks growing warm despite the cranked air conditioning.

"Oh! I mean. I would love to, but I uhm...do you remember the other night when my friend Karen called?" I nodded. "We have dinner plans tonight. Me, her, and my sister. Otherwise, I would so be there."

He was looking at his own lap now, and my spirit started to plummet until he wasn't looking at his lap and he was looking right at me as he said, "I really would, Pam. Rain check for Game 5?"

I smiled smally.

"Absolutely."

As soon as I saw his car leave my complex and make a left onto 6th, I made my way inside. Without taking off my shoes or locking the front door or setting down my purse and keys, I made a beeline for the kitchen.

The garbage bag was barely full, but I tied it shut, throwing in an extra knot for good measure, to suffocate that empty bottle. I dragged it out to the dumpster and closed the lid, breathing out a triumphant release as it closed with a _thud_.

**_Karen_**

Being back here was certainly hard.

In a way, Connecticut had been _my_ bottle, _my_ coping mechanism. If I didn't have to face it every day, the distance cancelled out the damage, right?

The routes through Scranton were mechanical now, as my body tingled with all of the ghosts that crawled up my spine, rendering the air conditioning in my car unnecessary.

There were a lot of places in town that we couldn't go, because they had bars, and I was okay with that; for as much as I could have used a drink, I didn't want to see Jim unravel again. He picked Pizza by Pappas, and it made me think of the old Jim, the one who would order the "Joey Special" because he finished an entire pizza by himself before the rest of the room could make its way through one collectively. I really did miss him.

When I found him and Larisa already seated, my heart beat more quickly, and tears were instantly threatening, but I shook my head quickly and pulled my lips into an aching smile as he stood and met me halfway.

It felt good to hug him, in the way that seeing an old friend always seemed to feel like home. He felt different, though. I could tell that he'd lost weight by the bones that poked into me in places they never had before. I could feel the unkempt stubble against my cheek. His hair had always looked like a homeless man's, though. That would never change.

"It's good to see you, String Bean," I said softly before he let me go.

"Good to see you, too, Ace."

The smile on his face reached lopsidedly up his cheek. It was good to see him smile.

I greeted Larisa with a hug, and as we sat down with our waters as we awaited appetizers, we fell into a familiar pattern of playing catch up without doing more than skimming the surface. Larisa's work was good. My work was good. Mom and dad were good. Isaac was good. I avoided asking Jim about a job, since I knew that he effectively lived on Larisa's couch without pay. She kept me updated as well as she could.

But I didn't know how to bring us deeper than that. Really, being at dinner was the escape before the events of the weekend picked up and drained us all. I honestly figured that I could just hold on until then, until we were all forced to face the music. The escape was just as much for me as it was for him.

She had been my best friend first.

Jim looked almost eager though, like he was...I don't know...something more than _sad_ for the first time in over a year. And I wanted to know why.

Larisa's phone rang in the middle of us eating cheese bread, and she stepped away for a few minutes.

"Hey. Sorry to cut things short, but that was work. I have to run. Are you...will you guys be okay by yourselves tonight, for a little while?"

Her words were simple enough._ I have to go. You guys have fun._ But they were for Jim. Her eyes spoke to me.

_Please make sure he's okay. I'm so scared to leave him alone._

So I nodded. Because I'd been there. In his apartment in Philly, where after he'd finally gotten the vomit out of his system, and after I'd cleaned him up, and after he'd sobbed himself to sleep, I fell on my knees in prayer and thanked God that they had made me an extra key when they'd first moved in.

I understood her completely.

So I nodded, quickly but subtly, watched her close her eyes for the briefest of moments, before she walked out the door.

"So, Filippelli, c'mon. Where's the ring?"

"What ring?" I chuckled, so far from the Jim that joked around that I had to remember what that felt like again.

"Exactly. You and Isaac have been together for almost _three years_ now."

I rolled my eyes and stole the last piece of cheese bread.

"We have...plans," I alluded, averting my eyes. "He's waiting for the right moment."

"Oh. Right. Like _that's_ ever worked for anyone."

I caught myself before I said _It worked for you._

"Hey. Take it easy over there. That's not the way to get details."

"Oh? Details, the lady has?"

"The lady does." I sat back in my seat, my grin smug, enjoying the pleading look on his face less because he was squirming, and more because it wasn't sulking. Then, I laughed and gave in. "We're going to Italy in September. He wants to do it there. I've already started the planning though. It's kind of backwards."

"So, I don't have to get you an engagement present yet?"

"No, not yet."

We both smiled, and he mouthed congratulations as the waitress placed our pizza between us. I mouthed a_ thank you_ back.

I was down to the crust of my first piece before I finally had the courage to ask him.

"So, how are you...really?"

It was such a loaded question. He could explode right in the middle of the restaurant, or breakdown; I didn't know which would be worse. But instead, he sat and thought. I watched his contemplations go back and forth on his eyebrows as he decided how he wanted to answer.

"I'm...okay."

His _okay_ wasn't a dramatic _okay_ or a_ fish for more information and give me attention_ like so many of my girlfriends in the past led it on to be. It was a good _okay_. The kind of _okay_ that made me smile, because Jim being _okay_ was so far removed from what he had been. I was more than okay with _okay_.

I smiled as he stared down at his own half-eaten slice and actually kept talking.

"I, uh...we might be coworkers again, Ace." I scrunched my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. "Yeah, I...there was an opening at the Scranton branch of Dunder Mifflin in sales, so I applied. I have an interview next week."

He didn't look up until he was finished, and his eyes were shining in that shy way that he had when he was waiting for someone else to share in the excitement before he let it get to himself. I reached across the table and grabbed his hand in both of mine, squeezing hard.

"I'm so happy for you, Jim."

It was another slice of pizza for me, and his finished first, before he was staring at his plate again.

"Hey, I...how's...how's Athlead doing? It's been bugging me to know…"

He wanted to know. I _knew_ he did. But to unearth it again was probably tearing him up inside. I could see it in the beads of sweat that dotted his hairline.

"They're doing really well," I reassured him. "After Under Armour signed, it kind of took off from there. You'd be so proud of what your little hole in the wall has become, String Bean."

I was doing my best to make this easy for him, but I really didn't know where to step, which mines of his would explode if I pushed on them. He wasn't exploding yet though, so I pushed on.

"Hey, actually, we had dinner with Wade a couple of weeks ago. They're sending business to the west coast. I'm sure it would be really easy for you to sign on, you know, if you wanted to...get back into it. I mean, you never got to see it get off the ground. After all the work you guys put it, I don't know...I figured you would want her to know-"

I watched the panic edge into his eyes, and lowered my chin in apology, hoping he'd catch it.

"Hey. I have an interview next week. For a big boy job. I'm taking baby steps."

His smile was so sad that I almost broke.

"I just...I can't go back there, Kare. Not yet."

I nodded, an effective end to the conversation. But I didn't want to lose him so quickly.

"Okay. So tell me about Dunder Mifflin. How'd you get dragged into the wild world of paper?"

He chuckled, and I watched him get lost in his thoughts again. But this time, I had no idea where he was going. That worried me.

"A girl that I met is the receptionist for the Scranton branch. She said that you guys are downsizing, and they need someone to replace their temp, or...something like that."

"Oh?"

He nodded, and I skipped right past the part about us downsizing (because I knew it was coming, and honestly, I wouldn't miss that job) to the part about the _girl_.

"And this girl is…?"

"Uhm, Pam. Her name is Pam. We uh...we met at AA, actually."

I could tell that he was doing his best to make his chuckle less nervous than it actually was, but he was avoiding my eyes, which meant he was afraid of what I was going to say.

I knew he was in AA because Larisa and I still talked all the time. What I didn't know was that he was meeting people. It wasn't a _bad thing_necessarily. But I was suddenly worried for a different reason altogether.

"Oh yeah?" I questioned, doing my best to mask my nerves.

"Yeah," he started slowly, doing the same. "Yeah she's...listen, Ace, I know what you're thinking but she just, she _gets it_, you know? She's so easy to talk to because she knows what I'm going through. She's...great."

I could see him struggling to put his words together, and I was doing the same in my own head as he continued and I debated just how I was going to respond.

"Like, she doesn't push me, and I don't push her. She knows what to say to me like nobody has in a long time. It's a nice change of pace, really. I...kind of feel like she's my safe place."

That was the biggest red flag for me. I understood his need for empathy. I wasn't the world's biggest drinker, and although he and I had shared trauma, his was different. He needed someone who understood him. I had tried so hard in the days after, the weeks and _months_after, to be his person, to remind him that we were all a family and wanted to be there for him. But he had fallen down the hole long before any of us could throw down a ladder long enough to save him.

The empathy, I understood.

But what scared me the most was _how_ he was describing this new relationship.

"Why?" I started, my voice shaking a little. "Why is she your safe place?"

"What?" His eyebrows pinched together as he stared at me from across the table.

"Why is she your safe place, Jim? Is it because you both drink? Because, honestly, that's not the best foundation to base this on."

"I…"

I could see his chest expanding more rapidly as his eyes darted quickly back and forth. I hated that I was doing it to him.

"You don't push her and she doesn't push you? So, what do you guys do, exactly?"

He was getting uncomfortable. But he needed this.

"I...I don't know, we…"

I chose my words carefully and said them slowly.

"Because it kind of sounds like you're replacing the whiskey with _her_."

I was afraid of this. Afraid that he wasn't talking to his therapists like he was supposed to. Afraid that he really was still bottling it all up inside. Granted, I was ecstatic to see him going to AA meetings, and being moderately sober. But this wasn't much better.

"She's...she's not a _bottle_, Karen, she's...she's…"

"Somewhere for you to hide."

I didn't ask, because it wasn't a question. He was hiding behind this girl. And while I was grateful, I didn't want to see him slip away again.

He looked across the table at me with his legs crossed and his head down, like I was mother and I was sitting him down for a lecture. I hated it.

"I'm sure she's a great girl, String Bean. But the way you're talking about her? She's somewhere for you to keep hiding. And until you can talk about it, until you can come out of hiding, Jim, that's all she's ever going to be."

His face looked like a traffic jam of emotions. He was hurt, confused, angry. I wasn't the type of person to reach out and apologize, though. He needed to hear it.

"She's not somewhere for me to hide," he started, defensively. "She's...she's more than..._that_."

I heard his voice pitch upwards on his last word, wondering if he even knew what he meant by it.

"So make it happen," I said simply, grabbing the check before he could even make an effort.

He scrunched his eyebrows together and cocked his head to the side. If we weren't wrapped up in such a serious conversation, I would have laughed, because he looked so much like a little boy as he thought everything over.

Finally, he huffed out a breath, stared down at his lap for a long moment, and then looked back up at me.

"Okay."

**_Jim_**

Karen stayed with me until Larisa got home that night. I could say that she just wanted to catch up, but like, I'm no dummy. It was like that scene in _Friends with Benefits _when Justin Timberlake tells his dad that the neighbor from across the hall was just there to, "use the kitchen." Karen was my friend. But she was also my babysitter.

There was no way she ever watched basketball willingly, but there she sat, until the end of the third quarter, when Larisa rolled through the door.

I didn't allow myself to go over what she had said at dinner until Larisa went to bed that night, after Golden State did indeed lose in less-than-graceful fashion.

I hated admitting it, but Karen was right.

Then again, she usually was.

I was hiding behind Pam.

Pam, who didn't ever make me talk.

The same Pam, who I _knew_ didn't talk just as much as I didn't, but had opened up to me not twenty-four hours ago. Pam, who had been cut so deeply that her scars were bruising. Pam, who leaned on the bottle just like me, but was making an effort to climb up and out.

I paced a hole in the floor of Larisa's guest bedroom before flopping onto the bed as exhaustion clawed me down. I ran both hands over my face as I closed my eyes and thought about Pam, letting a new wave wash through me.

I didn't really _feel_ anymore. But after what she'd told me, I felt a lot of things.

I was sad for her, but I didn't let on. Everyone in her life was probably _sad for her_. She'd had enough sadness for one lifetime. But even more than the sadness was the anger, the anger that any God could let someone as sweet and kind and cool as Pam Beesly endure such a fucked up thing.

Kind of the same way that I had yelled at and spited and cursed his name after my own tragedy.

My body ran red as I tried to push away the images of her fiance, who I didn't even know. It was easier for me, because I could only imagine. But then I thought of her, and the details that taunted her every time she blinked.

It wasn't hard to imagine why she drank.

And here I was, hiding behind her, using her as my excuse to stop drinking because who needed a bottle when you could bury yourself in someone who would go along with your plots to forget without ending the night in vomit?

She had broken through that cycle though. In the dead of night, and after puking up a bottle of tequila, but she had done it all the same.

I owed it to her to at least _try_.

I owed it to her to make her more than just a hiding place.

So I pulled out my phone, and tried to make a fresh start.

_**Pam**_

My sweaty palms could barely pop open the top of the Excedrin bottle. This headache was going to ruin me.

But I was out of booze, and most liquor stores in Scranton stopped selling at nine, and it was 9:22 which basically meant I was fucked.

So I swallowed a pill and tried my best to focus on basketball instead of the pounding in my head and the uncontrollable shaking in my hands. It was so out of character, but I felt backed into a corner.

I called Penny.

"Hello?" She answered on the second ring, and I bit my lip at the sound of my little sister's voice. I was supposed to comfort _her_. Not the other way around.

"Penny?"

"Pam? Are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," I breathed, doing my best to choke down my tears.

"Hey, are you okay? You sound like you're crying."

"Yeah, I...no. I'm, I'm not crying. I just...are you still thinking about coming down this weekend? Because...Penny, I'm not gonna make it."

And then I _was_ crying. My chest was on fire as my lungs heaved in and out, and I could only vaguely hear Penny saying, "Hey, Pammy, it's okay," and, "I'm right here, Pammy, I'm right here."

I didn't bother to look at the clock, but my sister was a saint for putting up with my fits. I'd called her for a reason, anyway.

"Pam," she asked, softly but firmly, as I began to calm down. "Is there any alcohol in your apartment?"

"No," I choked out. "No, there's not."

"I'm going to FaceTime you anyway," she said. It wasn't a question, nor was it an option.

The call blinked for only a moment before my sister's face was filling my screen. We went through the whole process like it was a routine, because at this point, it was.

She made me open all of my cabinets, the fridge and freezer. Both were mostly empty, so at least I didn't have to dig around this time. I went through garbage cans in the kitchen before she made me take the familiar walk around the entire apartment, knowing all of my secret nooks and crannies by now. When she was finally satisfied, I plopped back down on the couch, exhausted.

"I'll be there tomorrow afternoon, okay? Do you want to go to mom and dad's? I'm sure they'd love to have the whole family around the table for dinner."

She rolled her eyes at the same time that I wanted to say _God, no_ and _I'd rather stick my head under a tap_, but she was right. And in light of new revelations, I tried my best to keep moving forward.

"Yeah. Why don't you call me when you leave and we can meet up there?"

"Sounds great. I'll keep my volume on tonight in case you need to call again. And, hey, Pammy?"

"Hmm?"

I watched my sister chew on her lip.

"You're going to beat this."

It wasn't a question. Nor was it an option.

I nodded.

"I love you, Pen."

"Love you too, sis. Now, get some sleep. We have to endure Helene and Willy Comedy Hour tomorrow, so you'll need your energy."

I plugged my phone in after hanging up with Penny and did my best to make it through some semblance of a nighttime routine without my hands shaking. I wasn't under control of that, though. But I wanted to be.

I watched the rest of the game in bed on my phone, because although my body was exhausted, my mind was wide awake. I scrolled through Instagram for an hour after the Raptors won, and was neck deep in a hole of pages that revolved around the cast of _Gilmore Girls_when I had the sudden urge to search _Jim Halpert_. He didn't seem like the Instagram type, but in 2019, you couldn't really survive without one, right?

I had typed _Jim Halp_ into the search bar when the text notification covered up the top of my screen.

**_Gumby Halpert_**

Alright, Beesly. I'm a little scared by your basketball prediction abilities. You wanna pick my lottery ticket this week?

I smiled, and felt my body relax a bit as I settled back into my pillow.

We bantered back and forth for a little while until I could feel my eyes growing heavy, and as we said our goodbyes, he left me with one last message that made me sad and giddy and aching to just see him one more time before tomorrow.

**_Gumby Halpert_**

Alright. Enjoy your beauty sleep. And, hey, just so you know, I might go awol in the next few days. June 10th isn't an easy day for me either. If you need me, though, I'll be here for you. Okay?

The _Okay?_ hit me the most. Because somewhere across town, he wanted to make sure that I got it. That I knew he was there. And as I typed back my response, I stopped short.

"Hey, you okay?" he said as he answered my call.

"Yeah, I just...I needed you to know...I don't know what you're about to go through, Jim, but I'm here, too. Okay?"

"Okay, Beesly."

"Okay. Good."

I could almost hear him smiling through the phone.


End file.
